Red Roses For Snow White
by Miriza
Summary: A maniac serial killer is chasing a new victim at nightly streets of London. Sherlock sees the murder wave as a challenge, until it turns into too personal. Warnings for torture, abuse, non-con, swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**A serial killer is looking for a new victim in nightime London. For Sherlock a smart murder is just an interesting challenge...until the case turned into too personal. Even Sherlock´s sense of safety can be sometimes questioned.**

**Disclaimers: I don´t own characters, they belong to ACD and Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and BBC. I am just using them. The song and lyrics (Sugar, sugar, sugar) belongs to Nick Cave.**

**Note: I am not a native English speaker, so it may affect to my writing skills and word choices. I am sorry about that.**

**Warmings: Torture, abuse, non-con, swearing. You have been warning.**

**Thank you to Cryptic Nymph as being my lovely beta reader and britpicker. :)**

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><p>That stretch is long<br>You'll sleep and slide  
>That stretch will find you<br>Gagged and tied_  
><em>

_The room was filled by a bright hard light. The older man stood next to the cold, metallic table, hich was covered by a thin white sheet. He leaned over the younger man, who was lying naked on the table, tied by his ankles and wrists by thin straps, which had cut red slashes to his skin. The older man fastened a necktie around the other man´s throat and started to tighten it. _Black curls and white skin, like Snow White_, thought the man suddenly. A fairy tale without a prince to save the day. He tightened the necktie until the young man couldn´t breathe any more. _

"_Did you have something to say, dear? I cannot hear you." He smiled maliciously. "You really should try to speak more clearly to me, darling. "_

_The man with black curls didn´t answer. He couldn´t, even if he had wanted to. Instead, he spasmed. _

_Finally, when his chest´s stillness and his lack of movement revealed his victim had lost his consciousness, the strangler loosened the tie around his white throat. The young man started to gasp in air and cough. The tormentor waited patiently until his victim breathed normally again. Then he tightened the tie around his white throat again. _

_The tormentor couldn´t get enough of it, endlessly playing with his unwilling toy. _

_One, two, three…._

"_Don´t… You are killing me…" the man croaked hoarsely when the tie loosened around his throat. "I can't… go on…."_

"_One more time, my sweet pet. It's my house and my rules. Do you understand me?"_

_Four, Five, Six…_

_Finally he started to get bored. _

"_How selfish I am," he purred. "Let me help you to cheer up."_

_His fingers scratched down the younger man´s chest, which had been mutilated into a chess board pattern, carved by a knife into his flesh. The pattern seemed infected, it wasn't healing properly. The feeling of nails on his ripped chest made the young man yelp. _

"_Oh, still so sore? Maybe I should help you relax. You are so tense, my dear."_

_His hand rested on his crotch._

_His victim startled. "Don´t! Damn you, don´t touch me! Don´t touch me…"_

"_You are free to stop me." There wasn´t much to add to this._

_He held the other man´s soft organ, gentle touches at first, probing how it felt beneath his thick fingers, smoothing it playfully to harden it. The abuser continued his teasing until the organ began to respond. He started with familiar strokes then thrust harder, tightening and loosening his grip rhythmically. The penis in his grip was now so eager and hard. He knew exactly the right techniques to wake up even the most unwilling cock. The young man sighed from his arousal, he couldn´t help himself. He hated his lack of willpower and his disobedient body. He had always been proud of his mind´s power over his body, but now it had melted away like a snow ball in hell. _

_The man took his hard cock into his mouth to suck it. He felt the soft grip of the other man´s mouth around his cock. It felt good… in a bad, wrong way. The worst thing was the shame and guilt, that he let this happen to him. The other man was abusing him, treating him as his personal whore. _

_The abuser killed him every single day and night and then brought him back to life. He was losing himself little by little, every day a little more. He was not a willing whore to this disgusting rapist, he was not like that, a tiny voice tried to assure him in the back of his head. The urge to get himself free made him to tug at his restraints, although he knew from his experience that his efforts were useless. They just bit deeper to his white skin. The other man sucked, until the young man started to tremble and gasp as his body was spouting its milk uncontrollably. The abuser spat the still hard cock from his mouth and let semen drip all over him. No, not again... It was incomprehensible, how pleasure could be so painful. Or how pain could be so enjoyable. The mixture of feelings churned inside him into one aching ball. He wanted to vomit._

"_You taste sweet, has anybody told you that? Answer me! I want hear your voice, slut."_

"_No, no.. Haven't…" A self-hatred consumed his innards. He turned his face away; he didn´t want to look at his tormentor. _

_Predator left. It was over this time. He lay in the silent room, where the lights were always on, still shivering, dirty from his own fluids and blood. The tie was still around his throat as a reminder. As if he could forget._

_John… He tried to visualize John´s image… A memory of John… He couldn't let it go. But what would he think of him if he saw him like that, filthy and defiled? Wouldn´t he disgust John? Wouldn´t John be angry at him, when he had left him behind so long ago, not telling him where he'd gone, not even texting him?_

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><p><em>Two weeks earlier<em>

Cat found the corpse first. It could well have stayed unnoticed because it had snowed some hours ago, so it was almost covered by snow. Cat still noticed that the corpse of the young man was naked, but she couldn´t see the details, for which she was grateful. She guessed without further research that it was not a pretty sight. But nothing could hide from the street people.

Cat – once known as Catherine – might have forgotten a corpse and walked away. The homeless didn't go to the police if they didn´t have to, and Cat was no exception. Nobody would know, nobody would be hurt and most important nobody would get in trouble. But she knew one man who might be interested in her discovery. The man was different from the others; he gave her money, not out of pity, but as a payment for information. Not only for her, but for the other homeless people too. He called the street people his network.

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><p><em>It<em>_'__s __down __that __road  
>A <em>_lot __of __little __girls __get __lost_

When a young woman like Cat lived on streets, many men thought she was an easy catch, that she was desperate. But that was a mistake. She was homeless because of some unfortunate circumstances and her unwise life choices, but she wasn't a prostitute. She used to avoid and ignore these men, although some of them were very persuasive and even dangerous.

She happened to be a little careless one night. A well-dressed man had stopped first to give her a note, but then he grasped her wrists and leaned close to he. He had whispered, "You will get more, as a reward, just be a good girl."

"You're mistaken," Cat had gasped, before the man had muffled her mouth with his gloved hand and dragged her to a dark alley, pinning her against a rough wall. He had started to rip her clothes off, touching her intimately, taking what she didn´t want to give him by force.

They had heard a deep baritone behind them. "Is this man bothering you?"

The attacker had turned around to see who dared to talk like that, and got a punch straight to his nose. Blood had streamed from his nose when he, his face reddened by fury, attacked to the young black-curled man with the long black coat. The younger man hit him again with his left fist, and the attacker´s ear started to ring. Another kick came straight to his crotch. The newcomer was fast like a snake when he beat the man. Finally, Cat's attacker dropped to the ground, moaning weakly.

"I think that he got the point. Rapists disgust me. They are the worst kind of people," the young man said softly. "Are you all right now?"

"Yes…I am. Thank you. Are you?" Cat said, wondering what this guy wanted from her. People always wanted something. But her saviour didn´t want anything at this moment.

"Better than ever. Come. We have to go, before he wakes. Oh, and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn´t ever ask for anything in return, and he always paid for her for the information she revealed to him. Cat respected him, but they weren´t friends.

It was two years ago.

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><p>Cat knew where Sherlock lived, so she decided to visit there. Mrs Hudson sighed about how thin and dirty the young woman was. "I´ll bring you something to eat with your tea." The land lady was so used to Sherlock´s odd acquaintances, although the homeless seldom visited Baker Street. Nothing concerning Sherlock surprised her any more.<p>

Sherlock called Cat in and served tea– well, _she_ made the tea for her and her host, because Sherlock didn´t do that himself. But she didn´t mind. She drank her tea, and Sherlock's pale eyes gave her a piercing stare, probing the reason why she had bothered to come see him. He usually found her on the streets, when he needed her help. Everything unusual would mean an interesting puzzle.

She sat in John's chair.

"Tell me, Cat. Why are you here?"

"You are always looking for fresh corpses, Sherlock. I happened to find one."

Sherlock fixed his greenish blue eyes on hers, clearly very interested, and asked her to go on.

She told him how she had found the mutilated corpse lying on the south bank of Thames. How the naked young man was almost covered by the fresh snow. She had heard rumours, near silent whispers about a killer who called himself Predator looking for a suitable victim. No, she had not seen him, but this new dead body was dangerous. It was twisted, unusual, just how Sherlock liked his corpses. Cat supposed that Predator had left it there. His eyes started to brighten like a lamp inside his mind had turned on. He asked her to show him the place. This murder was fun for him. His weapon against the boredom.

John descended the stairs from his room to the flat to see if there would be some tea, and saw Sherlock leave with an unknown woman. This was unusual.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won´t be long. Enjoy your tea!"

"What, the tea is actually ready? _You_ made tea?"

But Sherlock had already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you very much for your interests. I am glad, that you have enjoyed my little bedtime story...

My English is not exactly this good...my beta reader has corrected it to more readable. :)

This chapter doesn´t contain anything very graphic, but more "action" will be in the next chapter... I hope, that I can update it soon.

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><p>The corpse had been thrown among the debris, which was visible despite of the snow, like it had become useless, abandoned junk itself. In the eyes of the killer, who had thrown it there, it was used and useless. Sherlock checked the body thoroughly. He didn´t ever mix his feelings with his work, it would be a great mistake. Other people didn't usually understand, not even John.<p>

The dead man was twenty four to twenty six years old. He had died maybe two to three hours ago, but several bad-looking marks, scars and burns on his skin indicated serious maltreatment over a period of… weeks? Maybe even a month? The victim had probably been a waiter or a bartender, nothing too physical, but had to stand a lot. He could have been a hairdresser or even a teacher, but these were less likely. When the detective checked the police reports about missing young men at the area of Central London within some weeks, he finally found a bartender working in Soho, who had disappeared a month ago. His name was Charlie Brown, single. He had left from work alone at one am, when a colleague saw him walking in the direction of Tottenham Court Road, and then he had disappeared. But it was mentioned that he used to hang out on Clapham Common.

"Is this good?" Cat asked, as if she had given a present to him.

"It is interesting, yes."

Under the man's nails were bruises, where something has been forced under them. Black marks from electricity shocks and burns, cuts made by a knife on his skin. Deep wounds on his ankles and wrists had been made by some thin material, and there was evidence of strangulation. Thin cuts, made by a sharp knife like a scalpel, were all over his chest, forming some kind of pattern, and he had bruises all over him.

Sherlock checked his surroundings. Because it has snowed a few hours before, it wasn´t difficult to find the wheel traces. The tracks of the car´s wheels- not an ordinary car, but heavier and bigger. A van, then. The traces were still visible on the road, it had driven towards southwest an hour or so, maybe towards Clapham Common? It would be a suitable park for anonymous confrontations. Wheels have deep treads and were ease to follow in snow.

Charlie was the fifth victim. The next before this was found a mouth ago, just before Charlie disappeared. Before that, there was two weeks between victims, and then a month. The need for a new toy had grown too demanding; he was probably out to seek a new one.

If Sherlock was lucky enough, he could have a chance of finding the killer. But he had to go at once, before the weather could warm up and melt the snow. The wheel traces would vanish and the murderer would disappear.

"Are you going after Predator? Don´t you need to call your friend first?"

"It is not necessary. I am just checking. I have to go, before he gets a chance to disappear."

He was somewhere out there. Sherlock was sure of it.

Sherlock left alone after the serial killer, who obsessed over young good-looking men. Cat had lived on the street for so many years of her life that she hardly remembered what it was like to live in a house, and was unused to intervening in other people´s business. She was used to taking care of only herself. She hardly gave a second thought to somebody else's life. But now she was worried.

She fingered the money which she had just been given, but it didn´t feel as comforting as usual. He shouldn´t have gone after Predator alone. Predator was dangerous. She hesitated a second, but then she had to go. It wasn´t safe to stay there any longer. The police could find this place. Besides, she had things to do, she had to keep herself moving, to find a place to rest that night and buy some food with the money she got from Sherlock Holmes. She hadn't the luxury to think about the corpse, Predator or the blue-eyed man any longer. At least he had a home to return to, where a friend – a lover? – was waiting for him.

* * *

><p>Neville recognized the white van which used to drive around the area. He had seen it regularly in this area. It had parked near the shadowy park.<p>

_A perfect place for a lonely hunter to catch his next prey, because no one would take much notice of him there. He hadn't planned to catch a new guy tonight, when he had just relieved the last one. But it hadn't been very satisfactory; the guy was too ordinary, too predictable. He gave up too easily and there wasn´t really much fun in it. So he felt hungry, as if he had eaten too little, and it only made him angrier. The next prey had better be good. His restlessness had brought him back to his old hunting ground, although he hadn´t planned it beforehand. His hunter´s instinct told him to do so._

Neville was the one with shadows, so Predator didn´t notice him. Instead they both saw a young man in a black long coat circling the silent park. The shadowy figure seemed familiar to Neville. Did he know him? He resembled one Sherlock Holmes, a private detective, who had been hired by his wife to find him, a long time ago. Shortly after that incident Neville´s wife had divorced him, and soon found another man, and Neville had lived permanently on the streets after that. His wife got everything in the divorce except the clothes off his back.

He could have blamed Sherlock Holmes from his unlucky life turn, but there didn't seem much point.

He couldn´t see whether the young man in the park was Sherlock Holmes. _He probably just reminds me of him_, Neville said to himself. He knew that people around here late at night were normally after something. Sex, company, warmth- even love, as foolish as it may sound. But he didn't realise what this man was looking for until he saw the white van. Neville would have advised him to stay away from it, but instead he stayed still in his hiding place. He saw the young man come closer to the van until…

It happened so quickly. The young man went to check the van, the wheels, the paint, what did he do?

Now Neville was sure that he should have warned the young man, the owner of the van had a certain reputation among the street people. Neville saw how the driver of the van came out, said something to the guy and then stopped, as if to take a better look at the young man. They talked, and then something happened as if it had been practised beforehand. The owner grabbed the younger man´s arm suddenly and made some almost imperceptible movement, which made the younger man shout out loud, step back and begin to lose his balance. He looked like he was suddenly drunk, although he was completely balanced earlier. The driver pushed the younger man towards the back of the van. He tried to resist, this much was clear, but it wasn´t enough, and he has been pushed inside the van, the doors had closed and the car had driven away.

Of course Neville should have told this to someone, for example to the police, but he was one of the street people. He had been arrested earlier, and because of that he didn´t report it.

The young man might be famous Sherlock Holmes, who had revealed to Neville´s wife how he spent his free time.

* * *

><p>Sugar sugar sugar<br>Honey you're so sweet  
>And beside you baby<br>Nothing can compete

_He had found him._

_The shining eyes of Predator were looking for a challenging prey, one which he could tame, suppress and finally give a hint of mercy. It was his overwhelming obsession and passion. Cold unmoving beams of the city´s lights reflected in his cold eyes when he prowled for his victims, unseen and undetectable in the shadows. The more they fought back, the more satisfaction he got. The moment of joy and fulfilment for him was when they finally broke. He overpowered them, made them crawl in front of him and beg for more, however humiliating it would be. They begged him not to stop; he made them forget their own safety and personal dignity. He made them swallow everything he ordered them to swallow. _

_Finally they begged for their own death. It was the moment of ultimate victory to him. It was also the turning point, because after that he lost interest in his victim, he became bored of his mindless faggot slave, and he would kill him. It was the last enjoyment his slave could give him, and it was the end of the story. There were no exceptions. Then he lived in peace for a while, worked for his daily living and lived a quiet insignificant life- until the restlessness filled him again and forced him to look for a suitable new victim to train. But he had noticed that the periods of rest and quietness had shortened with time, that the restlessness overwhelmed him sooner. _

_This last one was the best ever. He almost couldn´t believe his luck that he managed to catch such a first class piece of meat. He investigated his new, still unconscious prey, after he had undressed him and secured his wrists and ankles by strings onto the table. This beauty had no idea yet who he had fallen victim to, but he'd find out very soon. The serial killer smiled to himself gleefully, satisfied with what he saw in front of him. A very pale young man, slim but in good shape, wild black curls framing his rare beauty. He would have a lot of nice times with this one. Besides, he had literally run to his arms. The killer did notice that the young man was interested in him. He had to be some kind of detective or a police officer. No, not the police, he didn´t look at all like a police officer, so a detective then. But this time he had bitten off more than he could chew. The man started to wake up, the effect of the drug was fading. He groaned weakly, opened his eyes blurrily and saw Predator above him. He was still disorientated from the drug the man had introduced into his circulation, but he was recovering. He tried to move, to rise to a sitting position, but couldn´t. He checked his surroundings, and pulled at his restraints to test their strength. The green-blue, jewel like eyes investigated the older man standing in front of him. _

"_Good morning, my beauty. Take your time, we are not in a hurry. I have plenty of time and I mean to get to know you better. That is all I want from you, to get know you."_

_It was a lie._

_The young man wasn't sure if he wanted to know him more than he realised._


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for your story alerts, reviews, favourite story adds and reading! I appreciate them very much, because this is an important story for me. **

**Hi, Traciller, Cat will emerge next chapter. John has slowly started to realise, that Sherlock is not going to emerge home very soon.. Thank you for your reviews and interests, I hope you enjoy this.**

**Waterbaby, I like cliffhangers, too. Moffat has taught us the value of them. **

**I am sorry, that the updatings need so much time. I am hoping, that you have been patient with them.**

**Warning: graphic torture scenes. **

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><p>"I hope you're lying comfortably there. I hope you like to lie on your back, because you'll be doing a lot of that."<p>

"What do you really want from me?"

"You could start by telling me about yourself, Sherlock Holmes. I like to get to know my guests. And it'll help you live longer."

The detective stiffened. How did this man know his name? Oh, he must have checked his wallet. Credit card, ID, stuff like that.

As he talked, he pinned electrodes to Sherlock´s toes, fingertips and tongue.

Sherlock lay on the surgery table in the middle of the room. He checked his surroundings from his restricted viewpoint. The room had no windows, as far as he could see. It was most likely a cellar, this kind of room usually was. It seemed to be an odd mixture of a control centre and a surgery room. White tiles, monitors, a control table, a draining board, metal tables covered in instruments, brightly lit by fluorescent lamps. Hooks were fixed to the ceiling... but what for? Despite the room´s similarity to a hospital ward, it clearly wasn´t meant to help anyone heal. His observations only confirmed his fears. It looked like a modern torture chamber.

The man before him stared back with colourless eyes set in his shapeless face, his sandy brown hair beginning to grey. _Grey trousers, average size, average weight. _None of this would be very important, nobody would pay any attention to a man like him. And nobody would remember what he looked like, or even if they had seen him in the first place. His neighbours would have called him a humble fellow, who lived a lonely silent life, without ever seeing anyone or anyone visiting in his house.

So considering the limitations of the observational ability of average people, the chance that someone had noticed something unusual going on when this murderer had abducted him and carried him to his house, was near zero. Nobody knew that he was here, that much was certain.

"I am so pleased to have you as my guest, Sherlock Holmes. I hope that you will have more stamina than my last one, that you are more entertaining. And that you will give me your voice. I want to hear you talking to me."

Sherlock didn´t respond.

"You must be in real need." The murderer continued fingering some device in his hand. "You ran straight into my arms. You were so eager to become mine. It's not the right time to hold your tongue, my lusty bender."

Predator had finished his preparations.

"I didn´t look for company. I am a consulting detective, I was following you in order to get you to the police for the crimes you have committed. You are a serial rapist and a murderer." He managed to speak despite the piece of metal on his tongue.

Predator burst into heartfelt laughter. "Really? How noble and moral. Now, I fail to see how you're going to arrest me or alert the police. An easy question: which one of us is chained to the examination table, naked? Pay attention, "detective", I asked you a question. Give me your answer."

He turned the switch on the device in his hand. The pain surprised Sherlock and he yelped, but it wasn't insufferable and it didn´t last too long.

"Consider this as truth or dare. This was just the first level."

A new, stronger wave of pain rushed through Sherlock's nervous system.

"An answer, please."

The pain wasn´t yet too disturbing, but it demanded his attention. An answer... He should answer... What was the question?

"I will increase the duration and intensity of the current, and continue to do so as long as necessary, until you are wholly in cooperation with me."

"A…. a police officer and my… my… brother are looking for me. I know people from Scotland Yard. My brother will tear you apart when he finds you. You have no chance. He… he… can find anyone he wants to. You're a dead man." Sherlock managed to hiss.

"The stupid police and your miserable brother won´t find my house." The man assured him. "We won´t be interrupted. Yes, they´ll find you, when you've already been eaten by rats, rotting in some wasteland, in a derelict house or among trash, whatever place I choose as the final resting place for your dead body. Let´s hope that they find you in time, so there is something left of your pretty face for your grieving brother to identify you from. But not before that. They won´t ever catch me. And I will continue my little hobby. You won´t be my last toy."

A new jolt paralyzed the detective's body. His heart was beating furiously in his chest like a frightened animal's. Why?

"What... What did you ask me?"

"Did you already forget? You didn't pay enough attention. That wasn't very impressive. Are you really a detective? Or are you doing something else on the streets for your living? Who's tied down to the table, naked, without any hope of getting out? Who's in real trouble?"

The intensity of jolts increased. He didn´t give him chance to gather his strength and collect his thoughts.

"I… I am."

"Good. Right answer."

The pain stopped. Sherlock was sweaty and he gasped hastily, having forgotten to breathe for a moment.

"Now this should not be a hard one either. Listen: you are trash. You have to understand this. Repeat: I am nothing, I deserve all this. You are everything I need."

The white hot pain was stronger and more demanding than ever before.

"Repeat it."

No. He wouldn't play his game. He was Sherlock Holmes. He could handle this. But the pain didn´t stop.

He wouldn't give up.

He didn´t say a word.

The next level of current came.

"Repeat: I am nothing. I deserve all this. You are everything I need."

Sherlock´s brain was empty of every coherent thought at this voltage level. If the white hot flow of electricity that paralyzed his nerves would cease for a moment, it would be easier to get the words out.

"I... I... am... nothing... I… deserve all… this… You... are… everything… I need."

"Good boy. Now we are getting somewhere. It was so good, that you can repeat it again for me."

Again? Right… It wouldn't hurt more this time… He could do it… And he said, no, slurred the words again. It really was easier this time.

Finally, the man removed the electrodes from Sherlock's blackened skin.

"But we are just at the beginning."

Then he grabbed Sherlock´s soft cock.

_No!_ Sherlock screamed helplessly in his mind.

* * *

><p>The next morning, John descended to the living room to make breakfast, expecting to see Sherlock reading the newspapers and waiting for his morning tea. But Sherlock wasn´t there. Was he still in his bedroom? At what time had he returned? John hadn´t heard anything after he went up to his bedroom at 11 pm. Had he come home after that, and he still slept? John decided to wait and see. He had already poured tea and milk into his mug and called Sherlock, until he finally realised that he was alone. The detective hadn´t returned from his nightly chase. It wasn't unusual, after all, but normally he texted John if he was delayed. Maybe he was too occupied with his investigations even to text… Maybe John's presence wasn't crucial this time. John felt childish, he hated being left aside.<p>

All right, what he was complaining about? He could spend a free day doing something fun… Uh… He could… What he would do? Something normal, something which normal people did. He could call Sarah and suggest a date? They could go to a movie and have dinner after that, in a nice intimate restaurant.

To his surprise, Sarah was free and willing to spend an evening with John (probably because John had reassured her that this time Sherlock wouldn´t involve himself in their date, although he didn´t explain why). A movie and dinner sound great, she replied, just what she needed. John imagined her warm smile as he spoke with her.

It really was a lovely evening with Sarah. First, they went to see 'The Runaway Bride'. It was Sarah´s choice, not exactly to John's taste, but when John saw that Sarah had enjoyed the movie, it was enough for him. After the movie, they went to an intimate Thai-restaurant near the cinema, and it was really wonderful to sit there with Sarah, and talk to her about casual things in the candlelight. For a while, there wouldn't be serial killers, Moriarty, Afghanistan or seasonal flu in the world, but just them staring into each other´s eyes, talking and laughing. He had longed for a chance to spend an evening with his loved one without any sudden interruptions. Sarah was smiling and her eyes were glimmering. John tas ted his beer and smiled back. She was so beautiful, so lovable. John made a mental note to do this more often. He had been a too obedient assistant to Sherlock, without any payment. He had his own life to live, he didn't want to always follow Sherlock's orders. When he next saw Sherlock, he resolved to tell him that he was going to take more free evenings than he had done. Yes, that he would do. He had had enough of being Sherlock's eager sidekick, enough of hanging around crime scenes to check corpses at ungodly hours. He was a trained doctor, not a coroner. _It'll be easy_, John thought, staring at Sarah´s lively friendly face.

When John Watson returned home the next morning, he was still in an excellent mood. Sarah had a shift, John had the day off. The whole world smiled with him. The flat was still empty, so he could spend his morning in peace enjoying his morning coffee and reading the Times, Guardian and all other newspapers without having to hurry. What a blessed peace! He should spend all his free days always like this, not running around London like some sort of a madman.

But as the day went on, nothing happened and his good feelings changed into a hangover induced headache. He regretted last evening's thoughts when he remembered that he hadn´t ever spent so much time alone in Baker Street. Suddenly, he felt lonely. The skull stared at him accusingly, though its eyes were full of emptiness.

What if the detective had returned after he had gone to his date with Sarah the previous evening, and had just left before he came home? Lestrade might have needed him for a new case.

He checked his phone. No calls.

"Mrs Hudson!" John Watson shouted out of the front door to downstairs.

"Dr Watson, everyone in the neighbourhood can hear you shouting. I'm old, but I'm not deaf. I heard well enough when you arrived home this morning, young man."

"Erhm… I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Hudson, if I disturbed you. I don´t want to bother you, but… Did you happen to see Sherlock come home after I left yesterday evening?"

"No, I haven´t seen him since he left with that young woman two days ago."

"But he vanishes for days without telling anyone, it's not unusual for him, is it, Mrs Hudson?" Almost two days ago? John stared at Mrs Hudson pleadingly.

"Yes, earlier he did, but when you moved in here Dr Watson, he's never gone so long without telling you about it. You've been so good for him. I hope everything's OK, Dr Watson."

"He'll come back soon. You have nothing to worry about," John reassured Mrs Hudson.

John stared at the skull on the mantelpiece, asking it for advice, but it was persistently silent. _Maybe because I'm not its master_, John thought, and for some reason he wasn't amused at all.

* * *

><p>After two days of Sherlock's disappearance, John Watson had called him several times and sent him sixteen texts asking and finally pleading for an answer, without results. The worry was gnawing away at his innards like a starving animal. Things weren't as they should be. Finally, he went to meet Lestrade.<p>

The police department was like a busy bee hive, today even more so than normally. Sally Donovan deterred him as usual; this woman was starting to get on his nerves.

"I have to talk about something very important with Lestrade."

"That might be true, but why he haven't you shared your concerns with your freaky flatmate? Or has the freak abandoned you?"

John struggled, telling himself not to hit the annoying woman. "Yes," he finally said, "he has, in a way."

Finally, DI Gregory Lestrade noticed their argument and came to ask what was wrong. After he had explained the situation to him privately, Lestrade had said not to be too worried.

"Sherlock has a habit of disappearing; he's probably on a case which he wants to investigate alone."

"I saw Sherlock for the last time with a homeless woman."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock has his private contacts, but he will always come back."

"Shouldn´t we try to find the woman?" he asked. She could know something.

Lestrade sighed. "I'm working on a difficult case just now. Have you read about it in the newspapers? A serial killer who brutally tortures, rapes and finally kills his victims, who are all young men. Yesterday we found his fifth victim near the Thames. The snow has melted, so any possible footprints on the ground have vanished as well. The press are demanding answers, and my superiors are waiting for results. I'm rather busy just now."

Lestrade looked reluctantly down at his desk. "John, you said that Sherlock left with a homeless woman. Don´t misunderstand me now, but could it be possible that you don´t know everything about him? He might have started using drugs again. He used to vanish when he did that, before."

"No! He's clean. He promised me not to touch that shit again. I wouldn´t accept it. If he did, I'd leave. He wouldn´t lie to me." Red spots of fury emerged on John´s cheeks.

"You don´t know him very well, John. You don´t know what kind of person he was when he used drugs. He may have been clean, but you can´t ever be sure about them. There's always the possibility that the temptation has become too great. What if the homeless woman was a dealer?"

"I am a doctor and my sister is an alcoholic. You don´t need to teach me about addicts. I didn't realise until now how prejudiced you are. Not all homeless people are criminals. No wonder they don´t want to talk to police, if you suspect them immediately. She's Sherlock's informant, so she might have had news for him."

The shocking pictures of the young men were pinned on a notice board behind Lestrade, the five different victims mutilated and their skin covered with a collection of scars. There was a disturbing similarity in their appearance and ages; they all had brown or dark hair, they were all thin and good-looking, and they were all young, in their twenties or early thirties. The only exception was the first victim, who had sandy hair, and was shorter than the rest of them.

It was easy to think later that the right answer was hung clearly in front of him. It is easy to be wise after the event, to think that he should have noticed it beforehand. John's observational and deductive abilities were totally clouded by his fury towards Lestrade, and he had stared at the pictures without really seeing them. It is easy to be a wise man with hindsight. Even Lestrade missed the obvious sometimes. He rushed out of the room, hearing Lestrade ask him not to slam door behind him. He ignored the request. Lestrade could be so narrow-minded sometimes. Despite what John had said to Chief Inspector, he too believed that there could be a tiny chance that Sherlock had relapsed. He would find him with or without Lestrade´s help. He wouldn't give up on Sherlock, even though everyone else around him seemed to have. He would find him, wherever he was.

He returned to Baker Street by foot and bought a Chinese take-away en route (he wasn´t in the mood to cook for himself). He tried to shake the image of mutilated bodies from his mind.

* * *

><p>"How are we feeling today?" Predator asked Sherlock, three days and 69 electricity shocks later. He had counted every one of them, as Predator had showed considerable skill and creativeness in their placing, varying the position of the electrodes, and the duration and intensity of the current. He had enough knowledge about the effects of such shocks that fatal damage had not been caused. Sherlock expected that he would now get a demonstration with fewer repeats. He had black burning spots all over his body by now. His body was aching, and the urge to sit up and move was overwhelming. The constant agony of the shocks caused an adrenaline peak in his system, which demanded that he do something physical, to fly or fight… Or at least to get up… He was unable to obey any of the commands that his shocked nervous system sent to his body.<p>

"Fine," Sherlock said shortly.

"Are you really sure?" Predator touched the black burns on his ivory skin sporadically.

"Yes. I feel better than ever," Sherlock managed to mumble the words, although his tongue felt like a swollen, unfamiliar thing inside his dry mouth. He had started to smell, he could sniff the stinking odour of his own fluids, but he couldn't do anything about it. Predator hadn´t no intention of cleaning him up. He would have to get accustomed to being dirty, he thought to himself blankly.

"I don't think that I'm making much progress with you. I have to try something more– persuasive."

"What's your point? Why are you even bothering? You don't need to do this."

"Because you are mine. You just have to realise it. My duty is to make this clear to you. I am everything you have. As long as you do not understand this, I'll have to teach it to you. And when you finally get it, I'll be done with you. Usually, gorgeous creatures like you don´t pay any attention to ordinary looking middle-aged people like me, who can't pay enough you for your services. To you, I'm no better than dog crap under your shoe. But now you have to notice me. I am your entire existence. I am the pain you feel and the pleasure I offer you. I am your life and death. There is nothing for you except me. "

Predator cut a deep wound between Sherlock´s second and third ribs, pressing with his left hand on Sherlock´s chest to keep him still. He slid his right hand´s index finger against the wound, and scraped it with his nail. Sherlock started from the sudden unpleasant sensation.

"You are trash. You've even started to look and smell like trash. Look at me! Say it: I am a piece of meat."

"Ma- maybe... but... you've made me this way... it's you... not me... I'm not like that."

Predator slid his index finger teasingly back and forth in the fresh wound.

"Do you like this? Does it feel good, love? This is nothing yet. Just wait. Think how you'll look after a couple of weeks."

Sherlock turned his head away. Moisture rose in the corner of his eyes.

Predator grasped his dark curls and slammed his head hard against the table.

"Pay attention when I am talking to you! Don´t do that again! Say it to me, loudly: I am a piece of meat." He pressed his finger harder against Sherlock's wound. He yanked at his restraints, thrashing against the hard table. Sherlock bit his tongue so as not to cry out, tasting his blood and swallowing it. He felt dizzy and sick from the ache in his head. He fought back against the reflex to vomit, there wasn´t anything left in his stomach to throw up, except his own blood.

"Say it, slut!"

"I... am... a... piece of meat." Mumbling the words caused him pain, too. Everything was painful now.

The pressure ceased. Predator patted his cheek as a reward, and Sherlock struggled against his instant urge to turn his head away from the unwelcome touch in fear of another punishment. Yes, he had learned to fear this man in just a couple of days. It was some kind of achievement for his tormentor.

"Who's John?"

"What?" He assumed at first that he had misheard. This disgusting man could not possibly know about John Watson.

"John has tried to contact you several times. He isn´t your brother. He's made me curious. I want to know you better. Tell me about John. I want you to talk to me. I want to hear your voice. Talk to me!" He shouted his last words.

"Nobody," Sherlock stared steadily at Predator. "I have no idea."

"'Nobody' has called you nine times and texted you twenty two times. Why is it hard for me to believe that John means nothing to you? Don´t make this difficult. I really would like to hear more about him. I'm not asking for much from you."

He wasn´t going to say anything about his friend to this man. But he had to say something. It was pointless to deny that.

"He is my stalker," he finally lied.

"A stalker?"

"He calls himself my fan. He follows me, and calls me all the time. I consider it very disturbing."

"Does he? Why is his number in your phone then?"

"By mistake."

"I don't believe you. I want an honest answer. You know what I do when I am not happy with your answers."

"You'll hurt me again."

Silence.

"That's right. Do you see _this_?"

Sherlock hardly saw the thin object in Predator´s hand. It was a needle. When Predator grabbed Sherlock´s index finger, he remembered the mutilated nails of Charlie and knew what Predator was going to do. The panic caught him just before the pain. Predator moved the needle under his nail a little, and his whole existence turned into pulsating anguish. Every reasonable thought vanished from his head. He heard a scream coming from somewhere, before he realised that the sound came from him. He hated himself being so unable to control his body. He hated his body, which made him scream so mindlessly. He wished that his useless body would melt away, turn to ashes, simply vanish into thin air. Sherlock writhed in his restraints helplessly, trying to shut off the pain with his fading will power. He couldn´t do anything to stop himself from feeling it. The torment would only cease when his torturer decided so. Predator´s malignantly content face leaned over him. Finally, Predator dragged the needle out.

"This is for your own good. Now tell me who John is."

"A stalker." Sherlock repeated blankly.

His tormentor showed him the bloody needle. "How d´you feel now? Are you still fine?"

"You have done this before, the others that you've used before me have already told you how it feels. You know it yourself," he spat.

"So defiant… But I´ll beat that out of you. Tell me about your friend. Talk to me, tell me about John!"

"I don't have any friends. Nobody really likes me," Sherlock attempted to convince his torturer.

This dangerous man´s interest towards John made him feel sick to the bottom of his stomach. But Predator had given him a reason to resist his temptation to give up: he had to protect John´s privacy against Predator´s dangerous curiosity. The only person in the world who could stand him, so much so that he chose to live with him, of his own free will. He wouldn't ever let down John… his John. Even if it cost him his life. At least he would have done something, right then before he died, if he had managed to keep John safe.

"This needle is thick from your blood… It wants more of it. Is your friend as pretty as you are? Are you in love with him? Does he make you feel good in a bed? Tell me, how does he like to shag you? Talk to me, tell me about John!" Predator´s voice echoed from a distance, like an unreal entity.

"Never."

"You have to enjoy this."

Predator grabbed his middle finger and forced the needle under another nail.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for your interest! It means a lot to me. I am too happy about all constructive feedback.**

**This is a dark fic. I am hoping, that anybody does not feel too bad for my story. I cannot promise you, that there is coming anything lighter in this chapter. I promise not to hurt him permanently and he will be rescued in the end. I really love Sherlock. He is just so a fascinating target for hurting and it is so intriguing to study his reactions. Predator is a very brutal and short-tempered man, whose ultimate destination is to make his victims´ life as miserable as possible. Because of these reasons his methods are not very subtle . He needs an anger management. Or to be beheaded.**

**Lestrade has a more harsh attitude towards Sherlock than usually, but maybe he is just so stressed with the difficult case and needs a break.**

**Disclaimer: the usuals, not mine, but sir Doyle´s, Gatiss´ and Moffat´s. The lyrics belongs to Nick Cave (Sugar, sugar, sugar)**

**Betad by lovely and patient Cryptic Nymph. Thank you to her very much.**

**Warnings: more graphic torture, deprivation, mentions about non-con, name-calling.**

* * *

><p><em>You'll be his queen for the night <em>_But in the morning you'll wake With the Lords and high ladies Of the bottom of the lake _

* * *

><p><em>The shapeless darkness surrounded John Watson, pushing him, hindering him from moving forward. The substance was like a thick fog through which he was unable to discern anything, or to go through it. It was so chilly, like the darkness itself was the source of coldness. It was impossible to tell if there was anything beyond the darkness. Still, he had to go forward, to see if there was anything else behind the empty fog. This felt so important, for a reason he couldn't articulate. He just knew that he had to go on… He couldn't give up now, when he was so close to his destination, and then… He heard someone calling his name. He recognised it as Sherlock´s voice, calling his name weakly over and over again- but the voice was growing quieter, as if he was moving further away from John. John had to reach Sherlock, before it was too late. He knew now that Sherlock's time was running out, but he couldn´t move on, he couldn´t see anything, didn´t know where he should go. He ran in the dark without getting any further forward and his name was echoing everywhere around him. He didn't know where to go or if he was making any progress. He stumbled and stood up. He had to find him in time- and suddenly, <em>finally_ he hit a tall lean figure, who was darker than the blackness around them. The white hands helped John to stand, drawing him closer. They were Sherlock´s hands, but they were icy cold. Like the hands of dead. John Watson raised his gaze to look at Sherlock, but when he saw the figure´s face, he started to scream and couldn´t stop … The lean figure before him had no face at all. Instead of eyes or a mouth there were black holes and everything else was just a white formless mass without any identifiable features. No familiar cheekbones or nose or high forehead, just three horrific holes in his face. John panicked and started to fight back, trying to break away from the grip of the soulless lifeless creature, who managed to look surprised when saying with hollow, thin voice: "Now, don´t you want me any more, little soldier?"_

He awoke, breathing heavily and shaking. He had probably woken up due to his own scream. His nightmare repeated night after night. The devouring uncertainty of Sherlock's location had prevented John Watson from sleeping properly at night, and when he had finally managed to fall asleep, this haunting nightmare always woke him. It had replaced his earlier, more familiar nightmares of Afghanistan, but it was just as scary.

He had texted Sherlock seventeen times and called him another seven, as if it would have brought him back. Finally he had stopped trying. But John was sure now that someone or something was preventing him from coming back.

John had continued his work in the clinic, (he needed money and something to keep his thoughts from Sherlock) but he spent his spare time trying to find him. He ignored Sarah´s worried glances at him. Once she tried to invite him to dinner, but he refused, saying that he was busy, that in fact he was on a case just now. When Sarah had raised her eyebrow sceptically, he had added that he was investigating a case for Sherlock, that he needed him. Sarah had started to mumble something about his 'very dominant flatmate', and that John needed a break from him.

It was then, or maybe a little later on, that he'd told Sarah his flatmate was gone, and that he had to find the detective. Sarah told him that he should ask the police for help instead of doing the research by himself. John didn´t say anything to that- the police weren't helping, they were busy investigating murders, so busy that they didn´t have time for the living. John didn't want to wait until Sherlock had become a corpse before the police would be interested in him.

He had walked all over London, attempting to find places where the detective would have gone. He talked to the homeless people he happened to meet, trying to find some trace of his missing friend or the homeless woman with whom he last saw Sherlock, although it hadn't been easy as he didn't know her name. Many were suspicious, because they didn´t know him, and they didn´t want to talk to him. Some thought that he might be a police officer. But some of them recognised him and promised to see what they could do for him.

It was a very long and grey January.

One cloudy, chilly Tuesday afternoon, he returned to the Scotland Yard. He ignored Sally Donovan, who was shouting behind him- something about how the 'freak' had let him down, that he was wasting his time- and went straight to Lestrade´s office. He had to remind him that Sherlock was still missing, and he didn´t believe that it was of his own free will.

Lestrade looked even more harassed, if possible, but he just repeated himself:

"I cannot help you with this. An adult can be away from his home for a week if he wants. I don´t have enough men to look after every missing person. It's not even my division. You can fill an application form, if you want them to take your case."

John didn´t understand what had happened to Lestrade. Why he was so cold, when he was talking about their friend? At least, John had supposed they were friends. Was he unwell?

Lestrade had probably realised how he'd sounded, when he suddenly explained:

"He has always let me down. Now I need him, and he doesn't even answer my texts. If he's started to inject that crap inside his veins or something equally stupid, then I am done with him. Why you don´t ask his infamous brother to help you?"

Lestrade sounded so irritated, as if he had had enough of Sherlock´s methods and his way of leaving other people behind him without any explanation. How many times the DI had asked, almost pleaded with Sherlock to inform him more of his actions for his own safety and for the sake of their collaboration, but all in vain? Besides, his investigation wasn't progressing well:

"The killer seems to pick his victims randomly. He gets them into his car, in areas with a certain reputation, especially at night time, and drives them away to some unknown place. It may be his home or some deserted house. We've never found any eye witnesses afterwards. I desperately need Sherlock's help with this serial killer. I tried to call him, but he didn't pick up, so it doesn't look like he's very interested in helping them."

John stared at the pictures of mindlessly mutilated naked bodies, all found in London´s wastelands.

"Maybe Sherlock has decided himself to go after this maniac murderer to prove his 'superior intellect'. Look, he doesn't need anyone, not like us average mortals…" Lestrade continued his frustrated whining.

This man was clearly overstrained, John thought, and then…. _what had Lestrade said?_ That was it! Of course… Sherlock had left alone to track the serial killer… _Oh my god_. Stupid, _bloody _Sherlock "never-waits- doesn't-need-anyone" Holmes. John's job was to pick up the pieces afterwards, if there was anything left to pick.

"Tell me, Lestrade, when you found the last body," John said hastily.

"You know that, John, almost two weeks ago."

"Nothing new then? What are the intervals between the corpses? Before you find the next?"

"The interval has shortened every time. The killer needs more stimulation. And the bodies look worse every time round. That is typical of all serial killers. The interval between the first and the second was three months. Between these last two it was a month."

He stared at the photos of the serial killer´s victims, like he'd never seen them before.

"They look like Sherlock, Lestrade. All except the first one. The interval could now be three weeks, when he gets ready for his last victim…." John said finally.

Lestrade eyed the pictures on the wall. The slim figures and brown or dark curls of the young men resembled Sherlock. It was clear now when John mentioned it. How had he missed the resemblance? All except the first one, who was clearly blond and a more muscular type. He looked more like… John.

"Greg. The man has kidnapped Sherlock. You have to find them. Before he… Look the victims´ appearance: he is looking for a certain type." John hadn´t noticed that he'd called Lestrade by his first name.

"You can't be sure… Yes, it might be…. You _are_ right. For God´s sake, I don´t know where to start looking!"

"Gregory, this man has an obsession. You have to see it! If you'd just listened me in the first place…"

"All right, John. Calm down. I am asking my men to do double shifts. We have tried to find evidence from the parks, which are famous for... well, you know. We are doing all we can. We will find them, that's a promise, John."

Was there a hint of regret in Lestrade´s voice, or did John imagine it?

When John Watson left Scotland Yard, he sent a text message to Mycroft Holmes. He hadn´t done it before, but desperate times called for desperate measures: _" Do you know where your brother is? J.W."_

* * *

><p>He noticed that Predator had connected an IV to his arm after the last time he had passed out. So his capturer had finally decided to feed him… The IV didn´t stop him feeling repulsively hungry, like a living creature was consuming his insides.<p>

That wasn't the only thing he'd noticed. His limbs had started to become numb as a consequence of being tied in one place for days. He tried to move them as much as possible, but it didn´t seem to be enough. He had so many injuries that Predator had caused, not to mention injuries developed by prolonged lying down in one position, without any possibility of changing it. He hadn't been allowed to clean himself for ages. His bedsores bit- he could have told Predator about them, but he almost certainly already knew.

All in all, he felt like he had already started to rot, his body and valuable brain. He had to talk with his capturer about his condition. There had to be a way out. Nobody could want to hurt a complete stranger this way; it was totally incomprehensible and unreasonable, in his mind at least. Especially if the man who'd forced him to go through all this until he begged for the relief of death helped other people as his work. He had to find a way out of there. He even wished that Moriarty could find him. He wouldn´t be happy if he saw what Predator had done to his nemesis.

Oh, if he was explicitly honest with himself, not everything hurt. Predator had taken care of him, he pleasured him regularly. Once Predator told him that as a medical man, he had learnt how important it was to take care of someone's needs. It would all be for his own good, he repeated that constantly. He repeated it so often that despite what the detective's own senses told him; despite the self-hatred which consumed him after these humiliating acts; despite his wounds that wouldn't heal; despite his aching and starving body; despite his constant headache and all the other minor details; he had started to ignore what his senses and his brain told him and believe in Predator's words.

He had made a mistake in his stubbornness, which had caused his situation to get worse. If he just would back off a bit and give in to Predator, give him what he wanted, answer his requests, then he would get some relief to his existence… _Morphine_… Predator had supplies of morphine, he would give him morphine. It might happen. But then his own nature prevented him from giving in… _Remember who you are, _he reminded himself_. Don´t be so stupid._

He tried to think of anything that would keep him sane, anything other than his aching body, which was weakening every day. He had gone through all the mathematical problems he remembered, from his school times to University, finding out that he couldn't concentrate enough to finish them. He started to remind himself about chemical formulas, literature and countless minor facts which he had deleted years ago. There were plenty of them; the Solar System was just the tip of the ice berg. He had thought through all his unfinished chemical and forensic experiments in his flat, which he had left behind. He could hear John's voice nagging him about his experiments, the body parts in the microwave or the fridge (he felt like he was an experiment now, under the microscope of a mad scientist), or his mess all over the flat (now he _was _the mess) or his violin playing at three am.

He could try and go to his mind palace. Strictly speaking, the mind palace was a method of organising his mind´s content and his thinking process. It made the reality more meaningful, made it make sense. But in this situation, it would have served as an escape from his current, unbearable existence. The problem was he was incapable to going there. He needed peace and solitude to use his mind palace, and he had to move his arms during his thought process. He was alone, but under extreme stress and pain. He couldn´t use his body as he would have liked. He couldn´t go to his mind palace. Predator had taken it away from him, without even knowing about it. Hardly anyone knew about his mind palace, besides John.

He started to visualize John. John´s jumper, the colour and material of which had once seemed tasteless, but after a while started to mean comfort and safety to him. He would give anything to touch the jumper, to feel the soft, calming texture of the knitted garment. He just wanted to be clothed, clean, fed, safe. With John at home. Watching John make tea, which reminded him more of the Chinese tea ceremony than an everyday task. John would pour steaming tea into two mugs, bring one hot mug to him where he was lying on the sofa, and then would sit in his own chair, sipping from the other. Tea… Now he deleted the image of tea and continued focusing on the image of John. Sherlock missed John desperately. But then he couldn´t think further; his thoughts made him sob and he didn't want Predator to notice his weakness and take advantage of it. He saw John in front of him, coming to him. He imagined John killing Predator, shooting him, stabbing him over and over again, beating him to death with his bare hands. John would be so full of rage… He imagined John releasing him, taking him in his arms (he wasn't labouring under the delusion that he could walk out from this basement with his own feet) and carrying him away from this house of horrors.

Wishful fantasies like these weren´t like the usual content of his brain, so these thoughts were enough to convince him of how confused and distracted he now was. But despite his mistrust towards fantasies, his thoughts consoled him, and he decided to let them be. He really hadn´t anything else left.

The time passed slowly and he couldn´t track it anymore. He didn't know whether an hour or a two had passed, or if it was night or day. He had given up attempting to go to his mind palace, and had ended his pitiful fantasies. The basement chamber was the only real place in his whole world. Stagnant time had begun to feel rough like sandpaper, rubbing against his sore skin, and he wasn't sure if he could bare it any longer without starting to scream. It was pure frustration.

Predator stepped inside the cellar room and walked to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hooks in the ceiling might mean and if they had something to do with him.

Sherlock sensed the other man´s presence, and turned his dull gaze to him. He felt a powerful burst of fury, and he spat at the man:

"D´you feel any better, seeing me at your mercy, waiting to hear a beg escape my lips? I´m not your runaway boyfriend. He went long ago. You were violent, and he knew enough to leave you… He found someone better. Now… You're looking for revenge, or relief from me… from _anyone_ who reminds you of him. Have you found what you're looking for? You won´t win your boyfriend back by hurting me. I´m not him. The five other victims before me weren´t him. You won't get him back. If you kill me or let me go, it's the same. Your fury towards your boyfriend won't leave you. You´re the loser."

"Don´t _ever_ talk about him again! How dare you, you dirty slut? You are nothing compared to him… Nobody is… He betrayed me. I could punish you for your words… I could pull your eye out…"

The man was distraught at Sherlock's words. He watched his victim´s reaction to the sharp object in his hand eagerly. Sherlock´s beautiful eyes widened when the blade came closer to them, dancing over them, before Sherlock shut them suddenly.

Predator pressed the blade against his closed eyelid. It broke the thin skin.

"No, don´t… Please, don't do it... I am s-sorry, so sorry… I… won't upset you any more… Please, don't do it. Please."

"You think you're scary? You're at my mercy, and you just begged me. It's enough for me - this time." He decided finally. He lifted the blade from the skin. "Now… You need decorations. I am going to mark you a little more."

A ray of light played on the surface of the sharp thin scalpel in the man´s hand. He caressed Sherlock´s skin with his empty hand, like an artist testing the surface of an unmarked canvas. Without warning, he cut a long wound across Sherlock's chest, then another near the first. Precise cuts emerged on the white skin. Another after another, one by one. At first Sherlock didn't feel much, until the smarting pain grew stronger. His blood pooled on his chest … After another cut to his flesh, the twisted man licked Sherlock's blood. Sherlock yelped unwillingly after every new cut. The man cut his chest methodically, following a plan. After his chest was finally filled with fresh wounds, Predator took a mirror to show Sherlock his ruined chest. Blood covered the pattern, but he wiped the skin clean, so that Sherlock could see the markings he had cut onto his chest. It resembled a chess board. But Predator hadn´t yet finished his work.

"You know, meat needs salt to be fresh and tasty. I like my meat fresh."

He grabbed a handful of salt, and started to massage it into the chess board decoration.

"I am refreshing you."

And he added:

"I would so like to give you a handjob. I enjoy the feeling of your cum in my hand, hearing your moans, but it would be the waste of my time and energy. I want you to fully enjoy it. I am afraid that your mind is too busy just now with what I have done to you. You couldn´t concentrate fully. Don´t worry, I will be back later."

_This time, I'm not going to be pathetic. I won't make a sound, that's what he wants me to do, he enjoys my screams. I won't give him the satisfaction… _It was an empty promise. He scratched his nails against the table, his fingers crooked, biting his tongue until it bled. He swallowed the blood, and Predator continued to rub salt into the fresh wounds.

"I want to hear your screams," Predator prompted.

Sherlock screamed, as if it were an order; he hadn't the strength to stop himself. He didn't know when Predator had finished and left the room, he had – mercifully – lost consciousness.

Predator didn´t clean him up, he'd just left him alone there to wake up by himself. He really didn't want to wake up, the salt still stung and his chest was burning. Predator was right. His mind was pretty occupied just now.

* * *

><p>The sky had started to darken, when John got back to Baker Street.<p>

Cat was standing in the street in front of 221B Baker Street, asking for coins from passers-by. John went to her, unsure how to proceed now she had finally come to him. Maybe he should give her tea in the flat? He knew that Sherlock never asked them into his home. He decided to just give her money. John had already learnt how cooperation with the homeless network worked. But she started to talk before John could do anything.

"I know what you want from me," She fixed her piercing eyes on him. "He left, after the killer we homeless call Predator. The man had killed some of us as practise."

"Do the police know about that?" John stared at the young woman in disbelief.

"Police! You´re kidding me," she snorted. "We'll help you to find him. Raz and others have left messages all over. We're everywhere. Someone has to have seen something. When we know more, you´ll hear from us. We´ll send word."

The homeless were a social network. The word spread rapidly along the streets, alleys, dark parks and cellars, among the invisible street people, under the noses of police force. They spoke of how that man with a long black coat had been kidnapped by the hated Predator, who had killed one or two street people, before he'd started to chase more "valuable" prey.

Meanwhile, John Watson climbed the stairs up to 221B Baker Street, and noticed that the door was already open. Despite the fact that he knew this could mean danger, he pushed the door fully open without second thought.

"Sherlock?" He said hopefully, before he noticed the man standing in their living room. _Oh, naturally._ He had already forgotten that he'd sent a text to him, and now here he was.

"Erhm. Tea?" John suggested, his attempt at conversation.

"No thanks. I am not here to be sociable."

"Of course not. You are here for your brother."

"You look terrible, Dr Watson. Do you know that?"

"I have some idea about that," John answered curtly. He wondered briefly whether Mycroft Holmes ever left his umbrella at home.

"You were the one who texted me. You asked me if I knew where my brother is. What do you mean?"

John and Mycroft stood face to face in the living room. John tried to see something behind Mycroft´s unreadable expression. Mycroft waited, as if John should start talking. John couldn't bare Mycroft's silence any more. Hell, he was the one who needed help. This wasn´t the right time to try and gain the upperhand.

"Yes. I need you. Can you help us? He's… gone. Vanished… Help me to find him, please?" John admitted quietly.

"I suspected something like that, John. My men, whose duty it is to keep an eye on him, told me that they haven´t seen my brother for at least a week. Needless to say, I cannot stand such incompetence. Tell me what you know."

John told him all he could, although it wasn´t much. He didn´t mention his own inquires among the homeless, because he didn´t know how Mycroft would react to Sherlock's homeless acquaintances. But he told him about Lestrade's investigation, and to what conclusion they had come.

Mycroft nodded gravely and took his mobile out. Very soon, his men got a new task.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock," the man said to him. He hadn't called him by his real name after he had woken up and found himself lying on this surgery table. The man had been creative in inventing other names for him, however.<p>

He had brought green grapes with him.

"I can bring food to you, look..." Predator ate the grapes, chewed the juicy fruit so slowly that Sherlock could follow his every movement. Sherlock had to look at the man, in fear of an extra punishment – as if it made any difference in the sea of agony he was drowning in_. _

"I can bring you anything you ask for, Sherlock. I can loosen your straps, let you drink. Would you like few shocks? Tell me your wishes."

Predator crushed one grape against Sherlock´s lips. He spread the grape's juice on his lips, forced his finger inside his mouth.

"Suck it, swallow all, you whore! You want more, surely? You always want more. I can give you all you need and makes you want what you don´t even know you need." His words sounded creepy.

"Give me morphine," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. He was losing his voice.

"You don't deserve it. You haven´t done anything to deserve it. You're hardly worth the air you consume. If I remember correctly, I didn't promise you that you´d get out of here. You are dying, my little doll." The man´s mood changed suddenly.

That was alright, he thought. He couldn´t even sit any more, even if he had gotten a chance to. He had deserved all this when he had left John behind. John had to be furious with him, that must be it, that was the reason he hadn´t come to rescue him yet. Nobody would come. They hated him so much. He smelt terrible- it was his _real_ smell, he thought suddenly, sadly. His flesh was rotting; his brain was rotten in his skull.

"Would you like to have more?"

He heard the voice asking from a distance, but he had already stopped to listen it. He rejected his false hopes of favours, relief or sympathy. But he felt saliva dampen his mouth when he'd watched the grapes disappear one by one into Predator's mouth longingly. Oh God, he was starving. But he wouldn't bargain with this hateful man. He still had some self-respect left_._

"Tell me about John. What is his favourite colour? Is he brunette or blond? Is he good to you? Obviously, if you refuse to speak about him. Wouldn´t you like to make this easier? Get some food? Get fewer shocks? Do you want to sit? If you're nice and obedient, I can offer to you relief."

_Never. Eat dirt, you animal. You choose the wrong person. Tear me apart. Do what you can. It's not so much. _

Predator had finished with his grapes. He had already a new activity in mind. He had a tie with him. Sherlock hadn´t seen an accessory before.

"I'm a nice person, so I decided to change things a little. You must be terribly bored."

Predator tied the tie around Sherlock´s neck.

"You know, I have always admired your long neck. I thought that I could use it somehow, for our amusement."

He started to tighten the tie around the neck.

* * *

><p>Neville saw Raz´s graffiti on the wall near Clapham Common. He recognised the lad´s style and signature. Raz had been far away from his usual territory. There was something bad going on. Graffiti was a message, and this graffiti was a call for help.<p>

As a middle-aged man, Neville wasn't an expert on graffiti, but he understood the homeless´ secret sign system. It was their method of communicating things, to warn others or ask about something, and Raz was the king of sign systems. The homeless were looking for a Ghost. He knew who they meant. It was their code name for Sherlock Holmes. Now he was sure that he had seen Sherlock Holmes that night in Clapham Common. He had seen him vanish inside the white van, and he knew the sinister reputation of the van's owner. People vanished inside it and were never seen alive again. The homeless warned each other to avoid that van.

Neville had a photographic memory, and he had seen the van before in the park. He knew the registration number of the white van. He thought about how not helping could be as bad as actively harming someone. He picked up his bundle and left to look for Raz. Neville wasn´t a bad guy after all.

* * *

><p><strong>It may be, that my descriptions about torture and its effect are not completely realistic, but then I have thought, that this is fiction and it doesn´t need to be a document. I am very grateful, if you can give me more accurate facts about the mechanism and effects. Doing background work with the help of google is not always the most reliable method. And I don´t have patience to be so thoroughly with all facts, but I am trying to fit the details to the story.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you for your interests, reviews, story alerts and favorite alerts. I am hoping, that you are ´enjoying´ the new chapter. Unfortunaltely Sherlock isn´t exactly enjoying very much, but things can always become better. **

**Warnings: Violence, non-com, torture, language. Rape warning.**

* * *

><p><em>You better pray baby, pray baby, pray baby<br>You better pray oh tender prey baby tender prey_

As Raz listened to Neville, the sudden urge to punch the older man in the face almost overwhelmed him. He was personally responsible for the delay in information. Neville could have told him about the incident earlier,  
>although Raz knew himself how deeply rooted the instinct not to interfere and keep yourself out of trouble was in the minds of the homeless. However unconcerned Raz was, Neville should still have mentioned the incident<br>to someone. But that´s the way they survived on the streets, by keeping themselves out of the harm's way…

He sent a text to that bloke… what was his name? There… John Watson. Done.

The first rays of the rising sun painted the roofs of London crimson. It was time for Raz to go to bed. His task was finished.

* * *

><p>Before Predator left for work, clean and refreshed, he descended to the cellar. His prey had given him a lot of amusement.<br>He had been right; the little slut had been tougher than he looked, but his time was running out. He had been unresponsive during the last days.

Sherlock was shivering from the cold. He hadn't been before. The room was many things, but it wasn't cold. He knew what it meant, he had been sick before as a kid. His fever was rising.

And then… He was back again. Already. It felt as though the man had just left him after his last session. He didn´t remember it exactly, but he guessed that he hadn´t lost anything significant,  
>if his memory had closed the incident off behind a locked door, which was not meant to be opened in any circumstances.<p>

Predator checked his prey´s injuries and general condition. He wouldn't last long, but it wasn´t yet time for the final. His prey wasn´t yet ripe.  
>But he could tell it would be time soon. He just needed a little help.<p>

Sherlock followed him with his eyes apathetically as Predator cut his straps off and ripped the IV from his left arm.

"Move! Sit, I've allowed you to sit."

"I cannot," Sherlock answered blankly.

"Of course you can. Get yourself up."

"You know that I can´t."

"Let me explain, so you understand. You seem to be a little slow today. You move, or I drag you from the table. If you refuse to do it, then I'll be forced to do it for you. I recommend that you try yourself first."  
>Predator explained all this patiently, as if he was doing Sherlock a favor, like Sherlock was a little child who didn't understand what was good for him.<p>

Sherlock decided that it would be better to try. He pushed slowly on his elbow and then began to rise up. Then he stopped. He couldn´t proceed further. His body simply refused to move.

"I can't," he repeated, almost pleadingly. He was trembling. Now, when he wanted nothing other than to lie still, he was told to move.  
>He couldn´t imagine how he would ever be able to move again.<p>

Predator stared at him, an undecipherable expression on his face, then he grabbed Sherlock´s arm and dragged him forward. Sherlock closed his eyes and stiffened, preparing himself for being dragged down onto the concrete.  
>He wouldn´t survive it.<br>But that didn't happen. Predator lifted his arms and carried him almost gently down to the floor. The sudden and unexpected kindness touched Sherlock so, he cried. It was the only kind and human deed that had happened  
>to him after his abduction.<br>He knew that it wasn´t real, but he couldn´t stop tears bursting out over his cheeks. He lay still on the floor, waiting for what was coming next, crying soundlessly.

Predator didn't pay any more attention to his victim. He didn´t have much time for listening to his prey´s pointless whining, he needed to go to work, which he hated. It was where he had once met the boyfriend that Sherlock  
>happened to mention before. His ex-boyfriend was like a dark-curled angel, but he betrayed him and left him after Predator had beaten him. <em>That bastard.<em> Then Predator had decided that no one would ever leave him again.  
>He noticed that it was hard to find a new boyfriend, so he started to gain company by other means. He made them pay for what his original boyfriend had done to him.<br>He had improved his methods with every new victim.

He fastened chains to hooks on the ceiling. The chains went through the hooks down to a winch, which helped him to carry the weight of a man. The preparations were soon finished. Then he dragged his victim closer,  
>locked his wrists into handcuffs at the other end of the chains and started to lift him to his feet with the winch. He forced him to stand, and then continued to straighten him. Sherlock breathed heavily. His feet couldn´t<br>carry his weight, but he didn't have any other choice. Who had once said that there was always a way out? That guy clearly hadn't spent time in this cellar. He attempted to control his trembling, with poor results.

Predator seemed quite proud of his creation.

"You should see yourself. Not cocky anymore, are you?" Predator laughed humorlessly. "You are here because of me. Because I like it. I confess, this isn´t anything personal.  
>You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when we met, and unfortunately you're my right type. I just want to offer you the chance of developing our relationship.<br>You cannot deny that we have grown quite close during these weeks. You look unbelievable. Look at yourself!"

He had continued talking, whilst he picked up a large mirror. He wanted his victim to be completely aware of what he had done to him. He showed Sherlock his reflection. The detective turned his head away.  
>Predator could do anything, he could behead him if he wanted, but he wasn´t going to see the travesty of his body, a body he couldn't recognize any more.<p>

"So you don´t want to see? Are you denying the truth about yourself? Look at you."

"No. It´s you."

"What?"

"You. Your doings. Not mine."

Predator's face darkened. How did this cheap slut dare to cross him? He would pay. He was already paying for it, he would hang there for the whole day. He'd be more humble after that.

"I have to go. Have a good time, my little doll."

"Tell me… Tell me how can you can possibly do this. Your work… You help sick people all day and then to come to me to… to do all this. To all of them… your victims. How can you live like that?"

Predator came closer. The dirty whore would never learn his lesson. Sherlock felt Predator´s breath on his face. The smell of the man´s breakfast made his stomach twist- he could smell toast, fried eggs and bacon.  
>The memory of Mrs. Hudson's muffins flashed in his mind. Their delicious smell, he could almost taste them in his mouth. <em>Stop it now,<em> he ordered himself. This wasn´t a very good idea. All his good ideas had gone  
>a long time ago. Predator gripped his throat. He answered the question, whilst suffocating the detective in his grip.<p>

"My work is just a job. Unbearable sometimes, more bearable in other times. It helps me to cope if I plan what I can do to you after work. Or with anyone who's my guest of honor. It's so easy.  
>The work has to be done for a living, and after that it's time to have fun. The only problem with you is that you are already too used. The fun starts to fade away."<p>

The anger vanished from him, when Sherlock went limp in his grasp. He loosened his grip, smirking bitterly.  
>It was time to go to save lives. Pitiful lives of pitiful people. Victims of accidents, bout of illness and domestic violence.<p>

He left the room without looking back.

Sherlock inhaled the air, returned slowly and unwillingly to consciousness. He almost wished that he wouldn't. He longed for the comforting painless darkness. How long would this continue? Until the beast decided that it was time to end it?  
>He just kept himself going because he didn´t have anything else to do.<p>

Finally, he noticed a clock on the opposite wall. He was sure that it hadn´t been hanging on the wall before. Predator had put it there for this day, for him. It said 'tick-tock'. It was half past 8 in the morning, and  
>Predator had said that he would be out all day. So he had to hang there waiting for him to get back for at least… eight hours. No. It couldn´t be. <em>Tick-tock.<em> The voice was tiny but clear in Sherlock´s head. No. _Tick-tock._  
>He couldn´t get away from it. He heard it all the time. This wasn´t going to be good. He had a long day ahead of him. <em>8:31<em>. He turned his gaze away from the clock, but he couldn´t stop hearing it.  
>However hard he tried to avoid it, he watched the clock again. <em>8:32<em>. No. He couldn´t count every second, every minute. He'd go mad. _Tick-tock._

Sherlock had always thought that boredom was the worst thing in the world. Now he felt he should really reconsider...

* * *

><p>John Watson had had a busy morning. It was flu season, and sick patients were queuing to see a doctor. Three hours of work, almost all with flu, expect someone with a broken ankle or wrist.<br>Winter had victims. He finally got his lunch at half twelve with Sarah. Sarah insisted on having lunch together, despite it being a busy day, but she had something to discuss with him.

The café was noisy and full of people, but they were lucky enough to find a corner table. They couldn´t expect more privacy, but it was enough for them.

"We've hardly seen you during these last three weeks. I can't go on like this forever. You're more devoted to your flatmate and his unhealthy lifestyle than to me or this job. You should remember that you are a doctor,"  
>Sarah sounded tired and irritated. "You should be curing people, not rushing around London with an amateur detective trying to kill them."<p>

"He's not an amateur detective. And you know that he's been away almost three weeks. I'm worried about him."  
>That was an understatement, but he didn´t want to alarm Sarah more than was necessary. This had nothing to do with her.<p>

"Still, you don't have time to see me. And I really don´t see what he is, if not an amateur detective."

"He is a _consulting_ detective. And I just… I've been busy."

"If he's away, and you are only working here occasionally, I don't understand what could possibly keep you so busy. Unless you have someone else…?"

John sighed. He really didn´t need this kind of discussion in the middle of a busy working day. Besides, he couldn't explain to Sarah why he hadn´t seen her. He couldn´t even explain it to himself satisfactorily. He couldn't just go out  
>and have a good time with his girlfriend when his best friend was likely in the hands of a dangerous murderer. And he couldn´t do a thing about that without evidence of where they might be. London could be an impossible place to find<br>a missing person. If he was even in London any more.

"I don´t see other women, if that's what you're implying," John answered, unnecessarily angrily. "I am only worried about my friend. He could be in a lot of trouble."

"He's always in trouble, from what I've seen of him. It's his life. What worries me is that he's made it your life too. You should try to get some normality back into your life, instead of chasing criminals with a psychopath who wouldn't understand a happy, ordinary life if it punched him in the face!" Sarah flushed with irritation.

"How would you know what I need, or what I want? You're not my therapist. Now, excuse me, _boss_, I have work to do." John rose from the table, hardly noticing that he had forgotten to eat.  
>He just wanted to leave this awkward discussion behind him.<p>

"You should really think, John, what you want and what kind of relationship we have. If you continue this way, it won´t be good for anyone."

John returned to his office, hoping that his patients would help him forget his personal dilemma.

He checked his phone at two, when it was time for a coffee break. He hadn´t expected anything new, and the day had been long, full of patients. Besides, he had been so upset with Sarah that he hadn´t the energy to do it earlier.  
>But to his surprise, there was a new message from an unknown number. Someone had sent him a car registration number hours ago. Could it be from the killer's van? <em>Damn<em>.  
>This registration number was their only hope of finding the serial killer.<p>

He had to call Lestrade and Mycroft, they could find the owner of the van and where he lived, and then… maybe, he might find Sherlock. He didn´t dare to think further. He closed the door to get some privacy.

But there was a knock. It was Sarah.

"John, I want to apologize for being unnecessarily rude. I understand that you are worried about your friend. But it's not your responsibility to do the police work. I'm worried about you. If you have time to visit my place,  
>like we did before, or in a nice restaurant with me, we can talk properly. I know that you're tired, and I am too, but it would be good for us…" <em>Not now, Sarah.<em>

"I appreciate it Sarah, I really do, but I can't come tonight. I just got a text from… god, I'm not sure… It may be about the killer.  
>I really have to check out this information. It could be my only chance to track the killer and time's running out."<p>

"I see. Go then, go find the detective," Sarah answered dryly. She turned her back to John. "But don't expect me to wait forever."

John hardly listened. He was already calling Lestrade on the office phone and texting Mycroft on his mobile. It wasn´t easy to do it simultaneously…. Lestrade didn´t answer.  
>He was out, probably, or too busy to pick up. He hesitated a second, wondering if he should try to call Donovan or someone else in the department, but instead he left a text to Lestrade<br>and put his hopes on Mycroft. He didn't think it likely that he would have time to answer the phone call, but Mycroft did call him back. It was so unexpected that John almost jumped at the ring.

* * *

><p><em>He will laugh<br>And hang your sheets to see  
>The tokens of your virginity<em>

Predator had arrived at home some time ago. He had eaten and changed his clothes, pushing his work as an ambulance driver and first aider from his mind to fill it with more pleasant domestic tasks.

He sighed when he found that Sherlock had passed out again. Predator released Sherlock´s wrists and let him thump to the floor. He didn´t move, even after Predator had kicked him in his side.  
>Was he dead? Predator found his weak pulse. Alive, then… He wasn't very tough. Predator snorted with disdain. He had to wake him up if he wanted to gain pleasure from him. Predator started to mix<br>a cocktail which would wake him quickly and effectively. He worked for a while by a table with his instruments and chemicals. It didn´t take him a long time before the refreshment was ready.  
>He filled a syringe with the completed liquid. He returned to Sherlock and injected the substance into a vein in his arm. Then he waited, until it started to take effect.<br>Sherlock groaned. He moved. He opened his eyes.

"It is time for our wedding night."

Sherlock´s whole body was aching, his muscles burning like needles had been pushed into his flesh due to the forced standing position. Predator lazily opened his belt and unzipped his trousers,  
>letting them drop to the floor. He kicked his clothes further away. In the corner of his mind, Sherlock realised what was about to happen and made a weak attempt to escape... His last attempt. Despite his burning muscles,<br>he scratched at floor, tried to get a grip on it to drag himself away from the man´s hands, which violently forced him nearer. He raised Sherlock on all fours, keeping him in place by placing his left hand on his hip,  
>whilst at the same time he probed Sherlock's entrance with his index finger. He nudged his finger inside the detective, preparing him. His hard cock pressed against Sherlock´s bare skin. Sherlock hardly realised<br>what was going on, before Predator tugged his finger out and thrust his dick violently inside. Sherlock shrieked in panic, but he couldn´t get a proper sound out from his throat, whilst Predator groaned in animalistic pleasure.  
>Red strains smudged down his legs. Sherlock felt he had been torn apart into two, no, into a million pieces. In the back of his fading mind he wondered if it would be possible to find them all and return himself to normal one day.<p>

Predator finally came, jerking against his buttocks. After leaning awhile towards his victim, he loosened his grip on Sherlock, who fell down to the floor. His semen mixed with Sherlock's blood. The white noise and silence that had been screaming  
>at him over the last days ceased. He was totally numb. Of course, the ache in his body hadn´t disappeared, but it didn´t feel personal any more. He wasn´t here. This hadn´t happened. He couldn´t think of anything.<br>He hadn't got the strength to get up from this damned floor, which was smeared with his blood. He had been alone all his life and would die alone too. John, his only friend, wouldn´t come to save him in time, and  
>neither would Lestrade or his own bloody brother. He couldn´t stand any more humiliation, pain or insults without losing his mind. His imagination failed to predict what his torturer had planned for him next.<br>There wasn´t going to be any improvements in his condition in the near future. He had one thing left to do.

"Finish me," the words escaped his lips softly.

"Speak so that I understand you properly."

"I want you to kill me!" He managed to shriek.

"With pleasure. Don´t forget that I'm fulfilling your wish. I want to do this favor for you. I'm too kind. In fact, I think I have already killed you. Now we wait,"  
>Predator grunted, pleased, "and then I will go to take John. I´ll find him."<p>

"No! Please... Don't! Keep him… out… of this…"

Predator took his knife to clean under his finger nails.

"Not for all the money in the world, whore."

Then the ringing of Predator´s alarm system filled the air.

* * *

><p><em>He smells your innocence<br>And like a dog he comes  
>And like the dog he is<br>I shut him down  
><em>

Mycroft had found the required information. The name of the owner was Jack Harrow, and the address was in the outskirts of London. It was an old forgotten area- a generation ago it had a good and steady reputation,  
>but now... well, you could hardly believe it had ever been so. Grateful for the information, John thanked Sherlock's brother and hurried on. Mycroft promised to send his men to deal with the bastard. A taxi, he needed a taxi…<br>He waved at the rush-hour traffic desperately and squeezed his pistol in his pocket as if for reassurance. Finally, miraculously, one halted and he climbed in.

This had to be the house, the last one of a deserted and silent alley, where the only living creature seemed to be a stray cat. The cabbie gave John a suspicious glance, but he ignored it, paid him and stepped out.

It was a dull house with two floors, paint peeling on its walls, with a shaggy, unkempt garden in front of it. It wasn´t really memorable, in John's opinion. It was impossible to guess that in this house dwelled a dangerous criminal.  
>In the front of the house, a white van was parked. The registration number matched. John hoped that he was in the right place, but feared what he might find there.<p>

The door wasn´t open, but he knew how to break in. The door opened quite easily. The interior seemed worn, shabby and yellow-brownish. Old fashioned flowery wallpaper with peacocks on sagged on the walls.  
>John moved cautiously and silently forward, the pistol steady in his hand now, ready to react to the slightest warning sign. He had slipped into the skin of a soldier now, behind enemy lines trying to find his captured friend.<p>

If Sherlock was in the house, he would be held in the basement. That was the way it always was. John knew that he should take a proper look around the house, that it might be a fatal mistake to go down before checking the whole place,  
>but he had to hurry. Sherlock could be badly injured, and he trusted that Mycroft´s men would emerge at any minute, but he didn´t have the luxury of time to stay waiting for them. The most important thing was to find Sherlock.<br>The door on the right of the kitchen opened easily, and he descended carefully down the squeaking stairs to the basement. He couldn't hear anything, couldn´t see much in the darkness of the corridor, until… Down there was a sliver of light,  
>which revealed a half-opened door. He tiptoed to the door, opened it and … holding his breath… stopped.<p>

He stood in a white room, furnished with a couple of monitors. There were some tables full of instruments and devices, and it looked like a torture chamber. He couldn´t say exactly why the thought came to his mind.  
>In the middle of the room was a surgery table. John Watson, a doctor himself, recognised it instantly, despite the strange-looking leather restraints on all four corners.<p>

Its purpose was not to heal.

A thick mixture of blood, urine and vomit stank up the room. They were the odours of fear, pain and humiliation, and they filled John's nostrils. His eyes fixed momentarily back on the metal table in the middle of the room.  
>Its surface and the surrounding area were covered with rusty dried blood, yellow stains and dirt. He tried not to think about what these marks revealed. Nausea rose within him, but he swallowed it down firmly.<br>This wasn´t the right time to be sick. He had to keep himself in control to accomplish his task.

His eyes found the slumped figure on the floor. A naked man, turned towards the wall, his back to John, dark familiar curls like in the pictures at the police station. John squeezed his eyes momentarily shut,  
>and then forced himself to open them again.<p>

Was he still alive?

Yes, but he was bleeding. At the sight of the red puddle around the figure, John widened his eyes. Dear God… He was bleeding badly from his… behind. That animal had… him… _No_.

"Sherlock. It's me, John," he whispered, crouched beside the shivering man and lightly touching his shoulders.

He was saying something. John leaned nearer to hear it.

"Kill me. Kill me, please. Kill me," he mumbled in an unfamiliar and weak voice.

_Sherlock doesn´t know I'm here_, John realized sadly. _What is he saying? Asking to be killed? Sherlock of all the people is begging to be killed? _

"Sherlock!" John said loudly, before he sensed that someone was behind him. He turned into a soldier again, but he reacted too late.  
>The man behind him grabbed John´s hand, forcing him to drop the gun, placing a knife to his throat and dragging him away from Sherlock.<p>

"Stand up, John Watson! Away from the slut!"

_How dare he call Sherlock that? What has he done to him?_

John Watson obeyed reluctantly. Getting a knife through his throat wouldn´t help them much. He tried to suppress his rage, so he wouldn´t do anything stupid.  
>What was taking Mycroft's men so long? Had they gone to tea?<p>

"I am so excited to finally meet you, dear John Watson. I'd like to say that I have heard so much about you, but then I would be lying. I'm a honest man, I don´t want to lie to my guests.  
>I have to admit to you that your boyfriend hasn't behaved very well. He had been disobedient, and has arrogantly refused to talk to me. It has made me sad. I was forced to show him how sad he'd made me.<br>It was all his fault. He asked for this. They always need a little training."

_This man is a dangerously sick beast. As if I could believe what he says. This is absolutely absurd._

The man leaned nearer to John's ear, and whispered. "He offered me so much, but now he's finished, don´t you think so? I need a fresh one. I am so glad you came to visit us. I'm giving you a gift:  
>I'll let you watch, when he's bled dry. You can witness his last moments. Then I will start with you."<p>

"Do you hear me, you dirty slut? John Watson is here with me and wants to join me. Why don´t you rejoice? Your lover has finally arrived."

John swallowed. If he had noticed the text message in time… His work had kept him too busy, and Sarah had demanded his attention. _If Sherlock dies because of Sarah...  
><em>But wait, that wasn't fair. _If Lestrade had taken him seriously in the first place…_ _If he had found Cat earlier…_

"I wonder if you've managed to make him scream like I did. He was so beautiful, when he moaned, when squirmed in his restrains, trying to escape the sensations I made him feel. Of course, he couldn't go anywhere.  
>But I think he loves you. Despite everything I did to him, and I did quite a lot, I can tell you, he stayed loyal to you-"<p>

The sound of the alarm interrupted Predator. Irritated, he turned his attention towards a monitor, and it was John´s opportunity to strike. He twisted Predator's wrist until the knife dropped pinging to the floor.  
>Surprised, Predator tried to hold his grip from his attacker, before John kicked him hard to his groin. He picked his gun and fired blindly towards the hunched over Predator. The bullet sank into Predator´s chest,<br>and shouting loudly he staggered backwards. John attacked him again in a cold murderous rage, punching him to his chin. He dropped down to the floor and John started to kick him uncontrollably.

"This is for him. For all your victims, you sickening monster."

That was how Mycroft and his men found them.

Mycroft clenched John´s shoulder firmly. "Dr Watson, that is enough. Let me take care of this man. I think that my brother needs you."

John stopped, coming back to his senses. He turned to Mycroft. "Where the hell were you?"

"I am extremely sorry. The traffic delayed us. I hope that we are not too late."

John kneeled by Sherlock. He hadn´t changed his position, he didn´t seem to sense their presence. "I am so sorry, Sherlock. So sorry…"

John had to look hard for his pulse; he was hardly alive any more.

"Had someone called an ambulance?"

"It's coming. I called it at once, when we got enough information. It should be here any minute."

He took him to his lap, kissed his forehead, caressed him, straightened his greasy curls with his fingers and cried. All Mycroft's men avoided looking at them.

"Bring some clean towels, blankets, anything. We have to do something to stop this bleeding. We're losing him."

A couple of Mycroft´s men went looking for something useful.

"I am so sorry," he repeated, when he saw Sherlock's life escape from him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you again for reading, reviews and everything. It means a lot to me. **

**No warnings.**

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><p>Sherlock went into shock. He had lost too much blood. He was trembling, his skin sweaty and his hands cold. His heart beat was rapid but weak.<p>

"Sherlock. Don´t do this." They tried desperately to stop the bleeding, tried to warm him with a blanket. He didn´t like to use anything that was found in _this_ house, but he didn't have a choice. Barely a minute passed as his friend's body struggled to keep going, but it felt like an eternity to John. He needed blood, surgery, medication- but he wasn´t able to give him them. He was useless, helpless, and almost hopeless.

_I was too late_.

Mycroft covered his brother´s pale body with his coat to warm him. This mighty man seemed lost.

When the paramedics arrived, they seemed to travel in slow motion to John Watson. They checked his condition, doing all that they could to keep him alive. They lifted his friend cautiously onto a stretcher and carried him away to a waiting ambulance. They were going to put the still living murderer into the same ambulance, but Mycroft ordered them to call another one for him. He wouldn´t be allowed to insult his victim any more by being in the same ambulance with him.

Finally, Lestrade reached the house. He had to come; Lestrade had been in the charge of the investigation of the case. The police men investigated the whole house, trying to find everything incriminating. If John had been in a better mood, he would have found some irony in it. He had already witnessed enough of Anderson's incompetence to learn to suspect how effective they could be. But at this moment, he couldn't care less. He could have been angry at Lestrade, but he didn´t bother wasting his energy on him. He just imagined how Sherlock would have enjoyed snapping at Lestrade's team, showing them the important details which they'd missed.

John only congratulated Lestrade for completing the case, catching the serial killer and even for finding the missing detective. "Well done. You did it without his help. You showed what you can do when you get the chance… The press and the chief inspector will be more than happy. You might even get a medal."

Lestrade looked unhappy, but knew better than to object.

In the hospital, Sherlock had been taken to the operating theatre at once, and then John had nothing to do but wait. Mycroft stayed with him to hear news of his younger brother as soon as possible. John appreciated it. Mycroft would let the rest of the world wait when it came to his only brother. A three week old newspaper lay on the table, the front page reading: "Gay killer strikes again- new body found near Thames."

It took a few hours, several cups of coffee and Mycroft's nervous pacing back and forth (a habit he shared with Sherlock) before a surgeon finally emerged to tell them the news. The operation had gone well- he had bad lacerations to his body, but they had managed to suture them. But… Already the doctor's body language told John that he had something else to add. John recognized all too clearly the uneasiness in the doctor´s expression. Hell, he was a doctor himself, he knew that look. Something had happened during the procedure, and Sherlock had slipped into a coma.

John thought he heard Mycroft yelling at the poor doctor, but he could have imagined it.

These things happened. Doctors were not miracle workers, and operations were always a risky business.

But life seemed to freeze for John. Time itself felt stagnant. His world had shrunk into the little room in the expensive private hospital, which Mycroft had paid for. The walls of the room were dim green, designed to be calming for patients. A coma patient couldn't be much calmer, John thought bitterly. He never left his watch; his place was by his side. He was a soldier guarding his resting friend, a doctor keeping an eye on his patient´s condition, and a friend who just didn´t want to leave him alone any more. All this greenness, like a promise of a new beginning, it taunted him whilst the machines surrounding him beeped. The IV going under his skin, as porcelain white as the sheets covering him, kept him alive. The tube that ran down his throat let him breathe, as another monitor tracked his heart beat. If John took Sherlock's wrist, he could feel the weak but encouragingly steady pulse under the skin. He had always hated being medicated, despite his past drug abuse, or maybe because of it. Now he was pumped full of heavy medication, painkillers and antibiotics to help him to recover. It was vitally important, but felt like a betrayal. Medication helped his body recover, decreasing his fever, healing his wounds and his inflammation. His unique, brilliant mind was beyond their healing effect.

Even his body had changed. John had always considered Sherlock´s skin paler than anyone else's he'd met, but now it was totally white. His tormentor had given him just enough fluids to keep him alive but nothing more, and he had lost his blood continually. He was malnourished and dehydrated. He could see Sherlock's bones under his skin. His wrists and ankles had badly inflamed bruises, caused by the leather restrains that had kept him in his place for weeks…. John took his left hand and touched the long fingers, avoiding the damaged nails- every nail had been bruised, John observed. He felt the weight of this familiar hand, the blue veins under the white skin still transporting blood as usual, and the movement of his fingers stopped when he reached the bandage around his thin wrist. After that came the sleeve of a pair of hospital pyjamas. These clothes were so out of character for Sherlock, who dressed in the finest designer shirts. There were still black marks visible here and there on his skin, but the pyjamas and the blanket covered the majority of his injures, for which John was grateful.

His friend looked more dead than alive.

His sorrow at the horrors that his friend had gone through during the previous weeks made John shake, filling him with a rage w-hich he barely recognized.

At least his brain had stayed unharmed; a kind, middle-aged female doctor had informed him after an ECG scan. She couldn't find any damage, so it was highly probable that he might recover completely.

"Yes. Thank you," John had said.

The doctor had told him it wouldn´t be necessary for him to stay waiting in the hospital room.

"It can be a long wait. We'll call you when he wakes, but we can't tell you when that will happen."

John nodded as an approval, but he wasn´t going to return to Baker Street. Instead he continued to sit on a stool near Sherlock's bed, never leaving longer than to use the loo or take a shower, his meals and tea and coffee brought to him under Mycroft's orders. The older Holmes made sure that John got all he needed during his stay by Sherlock's side. Although John didn´t ask for much; he felt bad enough about getting the opportunity to satisfy his body´s needs, for the killer had taken all his proud flatmate's dignity. He knew that the feeling was irrational; he had to take care of himself, so that he had strength to be there for Sherlock when he needed him, but this knowledge didn´t stop him feeling guilty. If Predator was unable to regret his crimes and Mycroft was above human weaknesses like guilt, then he had to take care of it. Somebody had to do it.

John should have been working; he was needed in the clinic, but he informed Sarah that he had a private patient to deal with at the moment. Sarah told him that she knew only too well who his 'private patient' was. She was glad that he had found his lost friend, but added that he could consider himself not only her ex-boyfriend, but unemployed. John sighed. He hadn´t anything to add. To his surprise, he regretted losing his job more than his girlfriend. _I have to process this… _later_, when I'm __not__ so occupied_, John thought to himself, though he had nothing but time on his hands now. For some reason or another, he was unable to process his whole life situation, what it was and what it was going to be in his future. His mind was locked.

John read and reread his medical record over and over again until his head ached. Of course he had noticed Sherlock´s wounds, but previously he hadn't investigated them too carefully. He couldn´t make himself count them, read facts from them, know what kind of abuse, torture, hurt and deprivation had caused them. The details were too much for him to comprehend, but Sherlock had been forced to live with them. It was his duty to try to make some sense out of this story. He read and reread until he remembered it all.

He was waiting for Sherlock to wake up, and John would never forgive himself if he had wokw alone in the unknown green room, connected to these machines. He might misunderstand, the might think hat he was still in Predator´s cellar. He needed a friend near him. The doctor, who was specialised in traumatic cases, had told John there was a high possibility that Sherlock would wake up. Considering the extreme abuse and fatigue he had been forced to endure during the past three weeks, his body had simply given up and shut itself down temporarily to give it time to heal in peace. He would come back, he had been assured. John smirked humourlessly. His brain just refused to cooperate. He stared his friend´s ruined body and featureless face. The man was somewhere far away. John knew that no doctor could truly foretell if a comatose patient would recover and when. Some of them didn´t ever wake up.

Mycroft visited now and then, and John was grateful for his short visits. The elder Holmes could be distant and cold, but now he showed more care towards his little brother by sitting near him and lightly touching his hand than he ever had with all his surveillance cameras and prying.

John read a book. He had the time, with nothing much more to do than to wait and hope for the best, whilst fearing the worst scenario. The chair was too comfortable; the lamp just perfect to read by and his makeshift bed arranged in the corner of the room was perfectly comforting.

It was awful that his reason to stay in this room was far from perfect.

He didn´t have his previous nightmare, where he sought Sherlock in the fog, but the memory of it hadn´t faded. He couldn´t understand why he was now so scared of the man he had so desperately attempted to find. When he had held the malodorous, clammy body of Sherlock in his lap in that damned cellar, he'd felt only disgust towards the beast who'd dared to do this to his friend. He wouldn´t ever turn away from him. Sherlock had given him his life back; now his whole life would be dedicated to paying him back. John lightly caressed his dark curls, repeat Sherlock's name in his ear in the hope that it might call him back from the darkness he was now wandering in.

_What have you done to me?_

Before he realised what he was doing, he'd kissed his friend's forehead, as an assurance to them both.

_Please, come back. _

He didn´t only repeat his name, but also read him newspapers and books, told him stories and talked about anything and everything which came into his mind. Sherlock underrated fiction as invented stories with no connection to the world of facts, but John knew that he wasn´t completely immune to the influences of literature. Even he had learnt about Shakespeare, Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, T. S. Eliot and James Joyce. He had even read Rowling, secretly, when he noticed John reading one of her novels. John thought that he might enjoy Tolkien, and started to read him the Lord of Rings. He read for himself as well as Sherlock, to keep himself busy, useful and sane.

With the newspapers, he only skipped the news about how the police had caught the killer and saved his latest victim. _How did these people get their information? _Luckily, there wasn't an exact description of his victim. Sherlock would die of shame, if there had been…

After one week, the detective started to breathe by himself and the tube in his mouth was removed_. One less machine, that's promising_, thought John. He kept expecting him to snap his greenish-blue eyes open, but it didn´t happen. He stayed as listless as before, except he breathed without extra help.

When Sherlock eventually woke from his coma after two weeks, John was asleep. It was two am and the lamp shone dimly. He never turned it off, because John didn´t like the possibility that he wouldn't be able to see his surroundings properly. He had really tried to stay awake, but it was impossible for him to remain that way all the time; he needed his rest. He had a simple bed in the corner of the room, where he slept for a couple of hours now and then.

John awoke to screams. First he thought they came from him, that it was his nightmare, but he soon realized that he was completely awake. He went to Sherlock's bed immediately and took his hand, which only scared him more. He withdrew from John, eyes wide, unable to discern his location or who was near him. _He doesn't recognise me,_ John thought. Just like in the cellar.

"Sherlock, it's me, John. You're in hospital, you're alright. It´s all right, you're safe, you´ll be alright", John repeated this mantra. His Sherlock was back, and yet he wasn't still. John felt a joy spread from his heart to his limbs in spite of it. Sherlock frantically dragged the tubes away from his body. John gently gripped Sherlock's hands, looking into the eyes that didn't see him, but instead some unnamed horrors in his mind. He tried to bring his panicked flatmate to the present. Ignoring his efforts at comfort, Sherlock continued to shriek and struggle to free himself from John´s grip. John didn´t stop talking until the door opened and an unknown nurse stepped in. The noise had alarmed her, and she must have come to check what was going on.

It was pure instinct that told John to step between Sherlock and the hawk-faced nurse. If the disorientated Sherlock saw an unfamiliar person near to him, it would scare him even more.

"What's wrong here?" She wanted to know. "Who are you and why are you here?"

_She knows nothing_, thought John, but said to her, "His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he has just woken up from a coma. He has had a very traumatic experience recently, and I am his friend, and also a doctor. I have special permission to stay with him, given to me by his doctor. Can I continue to calm him?"

"I see. His doctor and a… friend? You don´t have authorization in this hospital as far as I know, and it's our job to take care of patients. Now _I__'ll_ take a look at him. Could you move, please?" She passed John unceremoniously.

"Now he's calming down." The nurse continued to bend over Sherlock. She touched Sherlock´s hands. "There's no need for dramatics." Her attempts weren't working. Sherlock's shrieks became hysteric.

"Shhh… Be reasonable…"

John wanted to drive her away. Sherlock was scared and disorientated and didn´t need an unknown person telling him what to do. Why didn't she understand?

"No! I mean… He needs someone familiar with him, Ms Adler" John read her name from her nametag. "I really can handle this situation; I'm an ex army doctor and I'm experienced in working with traumatized patients."

"You haven't had much success so far, he's still disturbing the other patients. If he doesn't start to behave-"

"I don't think you've taken the wisest course of action."

John guided Nurse Adler from the room kindly but determinedly, sighing with relief when the door snapped closed behind her. He hoped he wouldn't see her again.

He managed to calm Sherlock eventually. He pressed his hands close to his chest; spoke to him like he was a frightened child, whose nightmare had woken him up in the middle of the night, keeping eye contact at all times.

"Shhh… You´re safe, I'm with you."

"J-John? H-how are you here?" Little by little he stopped trembling, the disorientated expression changing into disbelief and then relief. John had finally come for him. He had been found and saved. He wasn´t dead. The wary relief spread through his tormented, emaciated body.

"John. You're real."

"Yes."

"Where…. Where is _he_?" Sherlock looked for his captor.

"Not here. He won´t get you. Ever. He isn't coming back. You're in hospital now. You've been here for a while."

"Don´t go away."

There was a pleading look in his eyes, which were fixed on John. His eyes were so changeable.

"I won't. Ever."

John waited for Sherlock to release his grip on John's arm, but he didn´t. The grip was like his lifeline.

_Don´t go away._

Hesitating for a second, John climbed next to him and pressed Sherlock´s back against his chest. He soothed him with his free hand, stroking his arm reassuringly until he relaxed completely and his wildly beating heart calmed down. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to do. Sherlock felt his presence against him. He wouldn´t be alone, not any more. After a while they both felt asleep.

It was almost miraculous, how quickly Sherlock recovered after his coma. Many comatose patients needed to relearn basic skills like walking or talking, but to John´s relief Sherlock was as competent as before. John suspected that the hardest part was yet to come, but at least he had gathered his physical strength and his injures had started to heal. It would have been too much to handle after all he had been forced to endure, if he'd needed occupational therapy.

Sherlock refused any emotional therapy his doctor suggested.

"How long was I…?" In Sherlock´s hands was a newspaper from 20th February. "I remember that it was the eighth of January when I… when Cat came to see me. But then…"

"Three weeks and three days," John answered gently. "And you've been in the hospital for two weeks and five days now, for two weeks of which you were in a coma."

"I _can_ count, it's just that I lost track of time… I couldn´t be sure, how long…."

"It's alright. You don't have to explain."

John watched him constantly. He was his doctor- God knew that this man needed one- and now he didn´t have much more to do.

He had promised to be there, and he was going to keep his promise.

Sherlock seemed a bit out of place in this tiny room these days. Well, it wasn´t so tiny for one man considering it was a hospital room, but still. He didn´t have anything to do, and he had started to get restless. He still refused to go out, except when it was completely necessary. He wasn´t interested in other patients, which wasn´t a big surprise. Besides, Sherlock sitting in the rest room shouting at the TV programs wasn't something John could imagine. It was best this way, for the sake of the other patients.

Three weeks passed. Sherlock looked more and more nervous. He wasn´t improving any more here, surrounded by those green walls and the hospital interior.

"I think that it's time for you to return to Baker Street," John started.

"I want to go home…" Sherlock said.

They said it simultaneously, and they both laughed.

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><p><strong>So as you noticed, I couldn´t let him die... I simple like him too much. <strong>

**I haven´t treated DI Lestrade very fairly, but for some reason or another he become like that in this story.**

**And if anyone wonders, so yes, nurse Adler refers to bbc´s Irene Adler. I couldn´t resist the temptation to write her to the story. I don´t like her character very much, so she was a perfect choice to be a not-so-gentle nurse.**

**There is still coming one more chapter.**


	7. Chapter 7

**I have finally got my story finished. I am sorry for the long hiatus! This chapter is the last one, so I hope, that you enjoy. Thank you for all my readers. **

**Disclaimers: I don´t own the characters, they all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. **

**Warnings: Not really. Sporadic mentions about a dead body, rape and torture. Nothing really triggery.**

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><p>They were back at home. It seemed almost a lifetime since they had last been there, although it had only been a few weeks.<p>

The first day, Sherlock didn´t say a word. He went to his room, closed the door and stayed there for hours, until he came into living room dressed in his favourite blue gown before going to shower. Sherlock stayed there for two hours. John heard the water running and knocked the door, shouting Sherlock´s name, but he couldn´t get an answer.

_Who spends two hours in the shower? Someone with OCD? A rape victim..._

When he came out, his skin had reddened from then hot water. He didn´t say anything, and just went to his room again.

John couldn´t hear a sound from his room after that, and was unsure whether he should go after Sherlock. Instead he turned on their telly; although he turned its sound down so much that he hardly heard it. Maybe his flatmate had gone to sleep and didn´t want to be disturbed. Sherlock needed his rest more than ever. John knew that it would be a good idea for him to go to bed as well, but he awoke the next morning still in his chair in front of the telly.

"Why did you come?" Sherlock asked John the next day at the breakfast table. The newspapers lay on the table alongside coffee mugs, toast, jam, cheese and eggs. John had bought them for Sherlock, but he didn´t show any interest in them.

"What do you mean?" John asked, confused by his flatmate, his coffee cup half-way to his lips.

"You heard me. Why did you come live with me? Nobody wants me. I know that. I've heard it enough times. I don´t make friends. I'm a freak. Why do you bother to live with me?"

John continued to stare at him.

"I don't… Those people… have no idea… How can you doubt me? You're my friend. I do for you what you would do for me at any time under any circumstances. You would have done the same for me, only so much more effectively. You would have been there in time for me. I am sorry, that that monster… I should have been there in time to prevent it. But it wasn´t easy to find you, especially when you didn´t send… I mean… when the police didn´t… and I am not a detective."

Sherlock couldn't look at him anymore.

"It's fine, John. I'm disgusting. I can smell my filth… the smell won´t go away, however hard I wash myself. How can you be near me? Don´t you smell it?"

"No, I don´t! Don´t think you're like that for one second. That sick bastard did this to you. He's made you feel disgusted by yourself."

John prodded his breakfast, but he had suddenly lost his appetite. It wasn´t over with Sherlock. It was only the beginning of the aftermath.

"Sherlock… I know you won't like this idea, but you should really share this with someone. Talking about how you feel inside will help you to recover… help you to feel like before… you can talk to me, if you want…"

But Sherlock stared at John like he had spat frogs from his mouth, and he realised that he'd better not push further with the subject.

oOoOoOo

"You want to hear how I feel? You want to go inside my head? Do I tell my story to the press? I could become an easy tabloid hero for the never-satisfied audience. Or would you like to write about it in your blog? Oh, you would get a wide readership after that," Sherlock shouted. He waved John´s gun in his hand. "The famous Sherlock Holmes has been raped, and smells like a cesspool, and is having a nervous breakdown. Oh, how human! More publicity means more clients. Are you all that interested in my inner world?"

"I don´t mean it like that. I suppose that you know that. What you've gone through, it wasn´t human at all," John said quietly.

John had heard the gunshots on the stairs, when he had come to home laden with shopping bags. He didn´t like to leave Sherlock alone for too long, but they needed food and he was the only one capable of doing the shopping. He had run up the seventeen stairs as fast as possible, just in time to see Sherlock randomly shooting in the flat.

"Stop this! You could hurt me, or yourself." John noticed something. "You've shot your skull."

The white pieces of Sherlock´s former pet skull lay on the mantelpiece and on the floor. This wasn´t a very promising turn of events.

"Are you telling me to see a psychiatrist? You haven´t seen the wreck my latest therapist was after trying to treat me? Or do _you_ want to try?"

John looked troubled. He was relieved that Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister. John hadn´t slept well recently. To be honest, he hadn´t slept properly for years, and living with Sherlock hadn´t improved it. But his weariness wasn´t the main focus now. It had never been since he had moved to the Baker Street.

"Please, give me my gun back. You shouldn´t take it."

"What will you do with it? Shoot more people for me? Maybe Lestrade would like to know about that. Wait, he already does. But the 'dangerously unbalanced' Sherlock shouldn´t play with a gun… no no no… he could hurt someone with it."

Suddenly Sherlock dragged John nearer, pointing the gun at him.

"I could use it… at any time… against you." His voice was a low whisper, quietly threatening. "You´re so sure that I am so damn good… what if Donovan is right about me? I would be the perfect murderer. I have the knowledge and the skills. Nobody would track your death back to me. I could make your body completely disappear. And my brother would cover it all up, if needed. He would do that for me. You're crazy to live with me, that´s the only explanation. You're keeping your gun here and leaving it for me to find, free to use. You _want_ me to take it. " His lips twisted a broken smile.

He put the gun into his mouth, his eyes fixed curiously on John´s shocked face, almost gleefully excited.

"Sherlock, stop this. You don´t mean this, not really."

Slowly, making sure John saw the movement, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled the gun slowly from his mouth, a suggestive movement that was almost seductive. John blinked. There weren´t any bullets in the gun. He had known that all along. Or… had he? John hoped that he had.

A flash of frustration and anger washed over John. Sherlock knew exactly what kind of effect his demonstration would have on John. He would have turned the whole London over for his detective, and he definitely didn´t deserve this. Sherlock didn´t need to play with his life in front of John's eyes.

"You're unfair," John said to him, quietly but firmly. He was exhausted. He felt like he couldn´t handle this situation. Even he had his limits.

"_I'm_ unfair? I didn´t ask you to stay." Sherlock's voice cracked as he yelled, betraying his true emotions. "I don´t _force_ you to do my shopping or clean my kitchen, to disapprove of my experiments. I didn´t ask you to do any of this. You do it all because you need a purpose in your empty life. You need the adrenaline."

Sherlock tossed the gun onto the table.

"I don´t need this! I don´t need anything from anybody. You have no idea how little I need you." His flatmate's vicious flurry of words stung. "I thought that I already knew _my_ limits, but I've been so wrong. I've learnt that I need much less than I ever thought would be possible. The least I need now is your acceptance or understanding or forgiveness. Leave me alone. Just go."

"Sherlock, listen me…"John tried to keep his voice in control.

The detective swirled and rushed into his room, slamming the door behind him, and John heard the key turn in the lock.

_I didn´t know he __had__ a key to his door,_ John thought. He swallowed his urge to shout after his flatmate_. It wouldn´t do any good._

Sherlock wasn´t like this in the hospital. He kept it inside, behind locked doors. When they had arrived home, it was like a dam had cracked, and the dark feelings which had been kept behind it were flowing free.

oOoOoOo

_He was awake, but he didn´t open his eyes. He was more safe this way, he thought, though he didn´t know why. However, the monster didn´t leave his room, although he pretended that it didn´t exist. It was there… He could hear it breathing. "He's here," he whispered, as if he needed affirmation. _

_It was here, and if he opened his eyes, he could stare at it._

_It could touch him. He was powerless, unable to stop it, to fight back. He knew now how their story would end. He was still too weak to prevent it. _

_No! He wasn´t in the cellar anymore. He was in his own room, sleeping in his own comfortable bed. He was perfectly safe._

_But it was still with him somehow, in his room, ready to touch, to violate him, to force him to look at his face whilst it did it._

_He had to open his eyes and see the monster disguised as a man. He fought against his urge to scream. The man always made him scream, moan, react. He was ridiculous. This time he was going to fight back. _

_He opened his eyes and saw the man over him, too near him, pushing his blanket away, ready to touch and violate and humiliate him, and he had to scream. He fought back._

John woke to Sherlock's screams, as he had done in the hospital. He heard them in his room through the walls and closed doors.

He ran downstairs.

He didn´t expect this to be easy.

He stood by his flatmate´s bedroom´s door, and then remembered that Sherlock had locked the door behind him.

John could hear terrifying shouts behind the closed door. It sounded as though Sherlock was fighting an intruder. John had to get in. He tried to shout Sherlock´s name, but when he didn´t get any response, he kicked the lock and the door swung open for him.

Sherlock sat on the bed, frantically attempting to drive an invisible something or someone away from him. His eyes were open, but he was not awake.

"No! No! No! No! Go away, don´t touch me, don´t touch me, don´t touch_ there _again, go away…!"

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up! You're dreaming!"

"Don´t touch me… please, don´t touch me." His voice was pleading. Sherlock had stopped fighting. He just sat slumped on his bed, almost sobbing, like all his strength had been drained from him.

John felt at a loss of what to do. He had never seen Sherlock so scared.

After a while, he managed to calm the trembling man down. John kept him close until he felt him stop trembling and relax. He was still sobbing, but he was able to focus on where he was and with whom.

"John?" He stared at his friend, as it was hard for him to remember.

"I'm here for you." John tried to sound soothing. "You're safe now, in your own home, and I won´t let anybody hurt you. Do you understand? I won´t leave you."

"_He_ was there… I swear he was here in this room, like you are now… Where is he?"

"Not here. He can't get here. He won´t catch you again. You were dreaming. You're safe, I'm taking care of it personally. You have to rest and get your strength back. Go back to sleep now."

"Like in the hospital?"

"If you want."

"I do."

John stroked Sherlock's arm with a feather light touch, after climbing behind his friend to spoon him, to assure him there was no monster, that nobody was hurting him, not now.

oOoOoOo

So the days went on. Sherlock had nightmares every night. John Watson would wake up to calm the detective, sleeping behind him, spooning him and keeping him safe.

John Watson had got his flatmate back, but couldn´t recognize him. He spent two hours every day in the bathroom, as if he couldn´t get himself clean. He was more unpredictable now than ever before. He didn´t go out. Sherlock said that without cases to investigate, he had no reason to. John suspected that he was afraid.

It had been difficult to get used to Sherlock´s screams, to see him so wary and jumpy, as though he was waiting for his tormentor to pop up behind a door, as if the man could walk through walls.

It was like Predator had won, Sherlock was still in his hands. Sherlock was marked by the black electricity burns on his skin that would never disappear. Worse than the visible scars was that his mind was still trapped inside the damned cellar. The murderer returned to torture him every night in his nightmares. He tried to clean off the dirt and self-loathing every morning without success. The filth was in his head, not on his skin. John wouldn´t let Mycroft know that. He'd have found out by himself.

Sherlock was far from well. John didn´t know what to do. He just was himself, which was all that was possible.

When Lestrade wanted to talk with them, John was prepared. Lestrade understood that Sherlock was still recovering, but he couldn´t wait much longer. He had been more patient than he was strictly allowed to be, for Sherlock's sake. But Sherlock was the only survivor, and his testimony was vital. The police needed his statement.

John told him that Sherlock wasn´t in the right frame of mind to be questioned, and that he didn´t believe Sherlock was ready to talk about his ordeal. John was sure that Lestrade could get all the information he needed from Sherlock´s medical records.

"Yes, I can use them for the investigation, but it's not the same as a witness' testimony. I need his statement still," Lestrade said.

"I see," John answered. "Then you'll have to wait."

oOoOo

"How is it with you, with both of you?" Mycroft asked John in the café. Although the day was sunny, he was still carrying his umbrella. He wielded it like a weapon.

"He's … he's doing fine, considering what he had to go through. He can cope with hard experiences. He's making progress."

"You call this progress? He doesn't go out, or work. He threatened you with a gun."

John´s anger flared suddenly. He kept his fury, exhaustion and frustration inside him, because he couldn´t show it to his still recovering flatmate. "If you are already so well informed, and have bugged _our_ home without bothering to ask our permission, then _you_ tell _me_, please, how you could have lost him in the first place?" John's voice was acerbic. "If your men were doing their jobs, then how was it possible for your dear brother to be abducted that night, leaving you with no idea where he was and who had taken him? You clearly pay them too much."

"John, don´t use that tone with me…"

"I'm not finished! Bloody hell, I'll use whatever tone I like. You won't do anything to me, you´re not that stupid. I'm the only one who doesn´t merely tolerate your brother, but looks after him and tries to put him together again after some maniac tore him apart. If you're using your intelligence service to supervise our daily life instead of keeping us safe, stop it at once, and leave us in peace!" John's rage was at its peak. "This is your fault. He's losing himself even as we speak, because you couldn´t keep your eye on him when he needed it most!"

Mycroft paused, an irritated yet calm expression on his face. "Have you finished?" John nodded. "Good. I hope you're feeling better now. You do not realise that I have done more for him than you can imagine. You don´t know about the attacks that I have prevented, because I have kept my eye on him _and_ you. I'm deeply sorry that this unfortunate accident occurred. My guard has not been perfect. I appreciate your efforts with my brother very highly, but I am offering you extra help. He needs a professional..."

John shook his head, feeling calmer. "He won't accept it, you know how he feels about therapists. I don´t believe forcing him into therapy would be good for him. It would cause more damage than it would solve. He needs time to get through this. He is progressing."

Mycroft sighed. "If you wish to call it that. I have other matters to discuss with you. The nurse you encountered at the hospital, Ms Adler, was hired as a temporary worker for a month, but she disappeared only a week after she had arrived. They remember her in the hospital, but the funny thing is, all her records have vanished too."

"She was a bit odd. As though she wasn´t who she claimed to be. What's happened to the murderer?" John asked.

"Believe me, you don´t need to know."

"It´s vital for Sherlock to know the truth."

"Tell my brother that he doesn´t need to worry about this man any more. He met an unexpected end. He ate something unhealthy, or at least that's what I have been told."

Mycroft stirred his tea. "This case couldn't go to a trial, that was out of question. I couldn´t allow the details to become public. I wouldn´t let my brother testify, be forced to retell all those details, and then to face the defence's questioning. He needs time to recover, and public humiliation isn´t the right way. I couldn´t prevent the press from getting their hands on such information. And when this… man went to prison, he would have been a hero amongst criminals. The man who made my brother suffer. When he got out, he wouldn´t have forgotten you both. I wouldn´t call that a punishment. It was my duty to prevent all that."

"You have nothing to do with this man´s death, John. It was a 'sad accident'. Your job is to make my brother better. It will take time, but you have that now."

When John heard the last sentence, his heart skipped a beat. He had been so sure that Mycroft would send Sherlock away, take him to a secure place to "recover", because John wasn´t making enough progress with him. Mycroft could be impatient sometimes. John never considered that he would be so considerate. He knew that most people wouldn´t see this as such, but he knew the elder Holmes brother well enough to understand that this was an act of love.

oOoOoOo

"I heard you," Sherlock said suddenly, on one of their better days, when Sherlock was more cooperative than usual.

"Hmmm?"

"I heard your voice, when I was in coma. You read me a story. I clung onto your voice, I think; it tempted me back. I had something to hold onto. Please, read me more. I want to listen your reading," Sherlock asked.

"What do you want to hear?"

"The book you started in the hospital. What is its name?"

"The Fellowship of the Ring. I thought you didn´t care about fiction."

"Not usually, but I am open to new things."

So that was how John started to read to Sherlock. They had plenty of free time, as Sherlock stayed at home these days, and John shared his time with Sherlock, especially as he was out of work. Well, that was untrue- he had a job to do. Mycroft even paid him for doing it.

The bookmark was still in its place, where John had left it last time. John opened the book. Sherlock curled up on the sofa, wrapped to his blue gown, pressing his legs against his chest and listening. John wondered if anyone had read him bedtime stories in his childhood. He dared not ask about it, but instead enjoyed their togetherness. Sherlock listened to him keenly, enjoying John´s peaceful voice and the story, which blocked out all the shadows of the outside world. Sherlock never used to be so docile.

"This is a long story. It could take a while to read it all."

"Then it's even better. It won´t end too soon." John started to read, smiling to himself when he saw Sherlock so relaxed and happy, almost as though none of this madness had ever happened. It was surely a good sign.

"You have a nice voice. I could listen to it forever."

oOoOoOo

Sherlock had begun to talk about his ordeal. This was a start. John smiled when he knew that they were progressing.

"First I tried to think over my scientific experiments to keep my mind busy, and focus on… something else. I was… He made me… He didn´t let me go to the loo. But you know that. You know what happened. I thought of my experiments, the unfinished ones, thinking how I could finish them. I… I couldn´t concentrate. I was hungry all the time. He kept me hungry and thirsty. He told me that I deserved it, that I was waste."

He stared directly forward, talking more to himself than to John.

"To my shame, I couldn´t remember any formulas correctly. I tried to think of anything else than... where I was. But it didn´t work very well. It was hard to concentrate, hard to forget the pain, the knowledge of how I was and how I smelt. I became so angry with myself, angry that I was so... incapable of making it all go away. Then I thought about you. It helped a bit, but after a while I couldn´t even remember your face correctly. It was like… things just slid from my memory… my brain. I was unable to think properly, as if my brain were a sieve. Then I just followed the ceiling."

"Followed the ceiling?"

"Yes. How it changed, how it moved. It seemed to curve a bit at its edges. And then it waved, with so little movement that I couldn´t be absolutely sure if I really saw it or just imagined it."

They were mentions about drug remnants in Sherlock´s blood. The drugs had been in the nutriment fluids. This explained the vision aberrations, and partly his difficulty thinking.

"He assaulted me. Not just once, but many times." Sherlock's voice became a little choked. "He forced me to come, telling me that it was for my own good, that I needed it. Somehow I believed him. Can you imagine it? I know it was wrong, but he made me enjoy it. And I hated myself more for that. I wanted to disappear through that damn table, through the floor, vanish into the ground, but of course I couldn´t go anywhere. I was trapped."

He wiped his tears away angrily. He was tired of his body continuously betraying him. John tried to pretend that he didn´t notice them.

John let him talk, making his ordeal into words, giving form to his experiences, making them tangible and letting them loose from his mind.

"Finally, I stopped believing that anyone would come to my rescue. I was sure that I would die there sooner or later, as the man assured me. That I had only one way out. He would help me if I begged him. If I asked him to kill me." As Sherlock said it, his expression was completely blank. He had gained his control over his body.

John Watson wasn´t a psychiatrist, but he knew that this was the best he could get Sherlock to do. Such a proud man would never voluntarily go to a real psychiatrist, and forcing him there wouldn´t do any good. All he could do was be there for him, taking what Sherlock was able to give him, assuring him that he would always be there for him. John knew that he couldn't make his pain vanish completely, though he wished in his heart that it would be so easy, but the ache could one day become tolerable. He would be more himself, maybe not today, but one lucky day.

At least Sherlock was talking about it now. John would consider this a good sign.

He remembered how little his own therapist managed to help him, and how much more Sherlock did for him by being just Sherlock.

That´s all he could do now for his friend, and maybe it was enough to save him from the abyss he was sinking into.

He still had nightmares, although not every night. John had slept beside him, consoled him, assured him that the monster was dead, that he could trust in his brother´s word. At least Sherlock didn´t spend the whole morning in the shower any more.

Now all they had to do was just to live on, and hope even against their best knowledge that the next day would be better.

oOoOoOo

Sherlock began to work with cold cases which Lestrade sent him. They were again on good terms. Sherlock wasn´t a man to hold a grudge, despite what some people might think of him. If the case was worthy of his time, he was eager to help with it, and Lestrade knew exactly what kind of cases Sherlock wanted. He was always ready to give him what he was looking for.

It was a perfect arrangement for them both.

But now Sherlock was standing in the middle of their living room, wrapping his blue scarf around his neck and putting on his coat, despite the warmness of the summer day.

"Out, John. Let´s go out. It's a lovely day. I want to go for a walk."

John grabbed his coat in a hurry, as Sherlock was already storming out. It was just like the old days. He tried to hail a taxi without success. They weren´t out just to get some exercise.

"Where are we going?"

"To a crime scene. Lestrade needed me to check a corpse. A young woman found strangled in a basement."

"Strangled? In a basement? A cellar?"

"Yes, in an old house." Sherlock said the address.

John stopped. The house was near the place they have found Sherlock. This didn´t sound good.

"Sherlock, are you sure about this? Are you ready for this case?"

"Of course I am. I need a fresh case. My brain needs stimulation. The work is my best medicine."

"But this case… after what you have experienced…"

"It's just a case!"

What was Lestrade thinking, asking Sherlock for a case like_ this_? Sherlock was still recovering. He was still fragile, under his mask of well-being. Only John knew how thin such masks could be, because he had worn the same one himself. John wanted to see Sherlock functional and occupied, but not for wrong reasons.

Sherlock didn´t listen. He finally got a taxi to stop, and they climbed in. Sherlock said the address and they continued in silence, Sherlock´s thoughts on the new case, John´s thoughts on Sherlock.

"You may be right," John said to him finally, hesitating.

"I usually am."

Sherlock sounded more like himself. It might just be an act, which made it possible for him to experience the outside world again, a flexible shell covering his inner fractures, but John was grateful. He wanted to believe in it, he wanted to see _his_ Sherlock. Sherlock knew what John wanted, he might think he owed it to him, forcing himself to look better to make John feel happy…

They were there. It was as always, a couple of police cars around the house.

"I didn´t take my wallet." Sherlock gave his to John. He had already gone when John turned to pay to the driver.

Sherlock rushed into the house like a child, who'd gotten extra dessert instead of a proper meal. Nobody asked him anything. The police officers recognized him and thought that their boss had asked him to come. But in the doorway Donovan stopped him, staring in disbelief.

"Freak. You shouldn't be here."

"Your boss asked me. _You_ should not stop _me_, Sally." Somehow Sherlock managed to lace her first name with poisonous distaste, without ever insults.

"No, I don´t mean like that." She looked almost concerned. "You really shouldn't be here. Believe me. Go home. I'll get you a police car to drive you both back."

Sherlock mused on the suggestion for one second. "I have been asked to come, and here I am. It's none of your business." Sherlock passed her without another word, John behind him.

"Hey, the Freak´s friend! You're making a mistake!"

They found the stairs soon, in a dimly lit corridor. The door was open as though calling to them, and they stepped through, beginning to descend down.

In the basement there was another door to a cellar room, which was damp and smelled wet. The forensics team was at work. Anderson stared at them as they entered, and Lestrade did too. He looked surprised.

On the ground lay the naked body of a young woman, her wrists tied with plastic restraints, having been strangled and very probably raped. But the most shocking sight was her other injuries- a bloody pattern on her chest, random wounds and black burn spots found all over her body. Sherlock suddenly paled. Even John could see why. He felt sick for the poor woman and for his friend. Who could do such a horrifying deed?

The woman was twenty-six. Her dead eyes stared at them, amazingly blue, her mid-length curly hair dark brown, very pale skin and… cheek bones. _She looks like a female version of Sherlock_, John though. _She was raped and tortured to death. Just what happened to Sherlock. __In fact, there's only o__ne exception: she's dead and Sherlock is alive. _

"Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock didn´t answer Lestrade. He was lost in the horrific sight before him.

"You asked him to come."

"No, I didn´t. I wouldn´t do that, not for a case like this."

"Someone did. He said that you asked… Can I get your phone, Sherlock?" But the man didn´t react.

"It was probably a text."

"I told you not to come." Donovan had joined their company.

"Who did send ask him to come?"

Sally looked stern. "I dislike him, but I have some sense of humanity. I wouldn´t do that, even to him. He's almost human, so…. besides, I wouldn´t use your phone without your permission, sir."

"Don´t look at me. I'm innocent," Anderson murmured.

"Like an idiot," John murmured back.

Lestrade was clearly furious. "Who's responsible? Do you think this is funny? A game?"

They looked away. Nobody answered.

"It was a text," John confirmed, checking Sherlock´s phone. "Sender: DI Gregory Lestrade."

"It can't be," the DI protested.

Sherlock breathed rapidly, his gaze glazed. He was having a flashback. _Shit._ Just when he was getting better. He didn´t need this.

"Let´s go out, Sherlock." He needed air now, and he had to get Sherlock out of this room, where the ceiling was too low and you could smell the dampness and death. He leaded him out.

Sherlock seemed like he had woken from a dream when they were finally in the sunshine under the bright blue sky. He shook his head, like he was trying to shake a bad thought from it.

"Moriarty," he whispered.

"He brutally assaulted and killed a woman for nothing…" John was horrified.

"This… This was just a practical joke to him. He had a good laugh. The victim was a piece of meat to him. Like I was to Predator."

"A camera?"

"It's sure to be hidden near. He wants to enjoy my reaction. And he might own someone among the police. Anything is possible. Nowhere is safe from him."

A hand went to his shoulder. It was Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I didn´t want you to come here. I'm so sorry. You have to believe me. I would have wanted to save you from seeing her."

"I know. And you don´t need to guess the murderer´s identity any more. His name is Moriarty. You don´t find him."

"I've asked for a car to drive you home."

"No."

"Yes, please."

"No. Call us a taxi, John."

"Thank you for your offer, Lestrade."

Sherlock was already going, but John grabbed from his sleeve, forcing him gently into Lestrade´s car.

"You can't find a taxi here, Sherlock. We'll accept Lestrade´s offer."

Protesting surprisingly mildly, Sherlock complied.

They drove home in silence.

John worried how this joke would affect Sherlock. He was grateful that Sherlock hadn't deduced anything about the poor woman, who had lost her life because of this insane criminal´s obsession.

He expected that Sherlock would lock himself in his room, staying in silence for days, or spending his time in the bathroom. Instead he sat on the sofa, burying his face in his hands, but he stayed in his place with John and even accepted the tea John offered him.

"Moriarty keeps his eye on me. He's constantly following my life. I would have been surprised if he had been ignorant of my… incident."

His phone beeped.

"Hah! I knew it!"

_Do you like my little surprise, sexy? I hope that I got the details right. Please enlighten me._

"Sherlock, how are you?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty´s mocking text and saw-wrong, _imagined_ his scornful face.

_How are you, love? _He still heard Jim´s voice._ Did you enjoy that?_

_Tell me how you feel? A_nother voice wanted to know. The dead man´s voice. _ Look at me and tell me!_

"Sherlock? Sherlock! How are you?" The third real worried voice repeated.

He muted the wrong voices, shook them from his head and answered the third.

"I will be fine, John. I won´t let them win. Ever. Not when I have a friend like you with me."


End file.
